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THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOA" 




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Golden Classics 

THE 
LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 

AND OTHER SELECTIONS 
FROM THE SKETCH BOOK 

BY 
WASHINGTON IRVING 



CHICAGO NEW YORK 

RAND McNALLY & COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 




Copyright, iqoq, 
By Rand McNally & Co. 






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INTRODUCTION 
TD THE 'SERIES 



The acknowledged classics of English literature are many, 
and the number of those works which are worthy of being 
ranked among the classics grows from year to year. Whoso- 
ever would know the best that has been written in our tongue, 
can scarcely begin his acquaintance too soon in his own life 
after he has learned to read. Nor can he be too careful 
about the new members he admits to the circle of his book 
friendships. 

The gardener may have prepared his ground with scrupu- 
lous and rigid care, but unless he follows his planting with 
unremitting vigilance, the labor of preparation will have been 
in vain. A few days of neglect and the garden will be 
smothered in weeds. Profitable knowledge of the best in our 
literature must be sought with like vigilance and patience. 
The taste for it should be implanted early and when estab- 
lished must be cultivated and maintained with constancy. 
It should also be intelligently adapted to increasing years 
and widening experience. 

The first few books in the Oolden Classics have been 
chosen as the foundation for a permanent and more extended 
series. They have been taken from the writings of acknowl- 
edged Masters of the English tongue. Among these immor- 
tals are Irving, Dickens, Ruskin, Longfellow, and Goldsmith; 
no names in English literature are more beloved and honored. 

More vital even than their great worth as literature, these 
selections have, in eminent degree, that wonderful quality of 
the works of human genius which stimulates the imagination 
of the reader, refines his taste, broadens and deepens his love 
of letters, inspires him with generous sympathy for all that is 
uplifting, and quickens his aversion toward all that is trashy 
or in any way unworthy. 



10 INTRODUCTION TO THE SERIES 



It is true in literature as it is in money that the truest 
capacity to detect the counterfeit is intimate, familiar knowl- 
edge of the genuine. It is not enough merely to know that 
there are works in our literature which have proven their 
immortal, classic quality, but equally as important to be able 
to name some or all of them. It is not enough even to be 
able to say that one has read them. They must be, so to 
speak, mentally absorbed. They must sink deep into and be 
assimilated by our intellectual life, and so become a part of 
our being. By just so much as any generation accomplishes 
this, and makes itself affectionately familiar with all that is 
possible of that literature which has crystallized into immor- 
tality; by just so much it has raised the plane on which the 
next generation must begin its career, and thus has contribu- 
ted toward the uplifting evolution of humanity. 

These Golden Classics are meant to put the means of 
rising to this plane within easy reach; opening a path which 
every aspiring reader may follow in full confidence that he 
will not be led astray. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 11 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

(FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH 

KNICKERBOCKER.) 

A pleasing land of drowsy head It was. 
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; 
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
Forever flushing round a summer sky. 

— Castle of Indolence. 

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent 
the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of 
the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the 
Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail, 
and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, 
there lies a small market town or rural port, which by some 
is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and prop- 
erly known by the name of Tarry Town. This name was 
given it, we are told, in former days, by the good housewives 
of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of 
their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market 
days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but 
merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. 
Not far from this village, perhaps about three miles, there is 
a little valley or rather lap of land among high hills, which is 
one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook 
glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to re- 
pose; and the occasional whistle of a quail, or tapping of a 
woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon 
the uniform tranquillity, 

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel- 
shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one 
side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noon-time, when 
all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of 
my own gun, as it broke the sabbath stillness around, and was 
prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes, If ever I 
should wish for a retreat whither I might steal from the world 
and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a 
troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little 
valley. 



12 WASHINGTON IRVING 

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar char- 
acter of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original 
Butch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known 
by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads are called 
the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring coun- 
try. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, 
and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place 
was bewitched by a high German doctor, during the early days 
of the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet 
or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the 
country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain 
it is the place still continues under the sway of some witching 
power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, 
causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given 
to all kinds of marvelous beliefs; are subject to trances and 
visions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and 
voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local 
tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot 
and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other 
part of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole nine 
fold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols. 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted 
region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers 
of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback without 
a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian 
trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, 
in some nameless battle during the revolutionary war, and 
who is ever and anon seen by the country folk, hurrying along 
in the gloom of night, as if on the wind. His haunts are not 
confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent 
roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church that is at no 
great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic his- 
torians of those parts, who have been careful in collecting and 
collating the floating facts concerning this specter, allege, that 
the body of the trooper having been in the churchyard, the 
ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his 
head, and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes 
passes along the hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his 
being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard 
before daybreak. 

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, 
which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that 
region of shadows; and the specter is J:nown at all the coun- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 13 

try firesides, by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy 
Hollow. 

It is remarkable, that the visionary propensity I have men- 
tioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, 
but is unconsciously imbibed by everyone who resides there 
for a time. However wide awake they may have been before 
they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, 
to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow 
imaginative — to dream dreams, and see apparitions. 

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud; for it 
is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there 
embosomed in the great State of New York, that population, 
manners, and customs remain fixed, while the great torrent 
of migration and improvement, which is making such inces- 
sant changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps 
by them unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still 
water, which border a rapid stream, where we may see the 
straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving 
in their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing 
current. Though many years have elapsed since I trod the 
drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I 
should not find the same trees and the same families vegetating 
in its sheltered bosom. 

In this by-place of nature there abode, in a remote period 
of American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, 
a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, 
or, as he expressed it, "tarried," in Sleepy Hollow, for the 
purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a 
native of Connecticut, a State which supplies the Union with 
pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth 
yearly its legions of frontier woodmen and country school- 
masters. The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his 
person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoul- 
ders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of 
his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his 
whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was small, 
and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a 
long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weathercock perched 
upon his spindle neck, to tell which way the wind blew. To 
see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, 
with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might 
have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon 
the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield, 



14 WASHINGTON IRVING 

His school-house was a low building of one large room, 
rudely co^istructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and 
partly patched with leafs of copy-books. It was most in- 
geniously secured at vacant hours, by a withe twisted in the 
handle of the door, and stakes set against the window-shut- 
ters; so that though a thief might get in with perfect ease, 
he would find some embarrassment in getting out; — an idea 
most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, 
from the mystery of an eelpot. The school-house stood in a 
rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at the foot of a 
woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a formidable 
birch-tree growing at one end of it. From hence the low mur- 
mur of his pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, might 
be heard of a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a bee- 
hive; interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of 
the master, in the tone of menace or command; or, peradven- 
ture, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some 
tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth 
to say, he was a conscientious man, that ever bore in mind 
the golden maxim, ^^spare the rod and spoil the child." Icha- 
bod Crane's scholars certainly were riot spoiled. 

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of 
those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in the smart of 
their subjects; on the contrary, he administered justice with 
discrimination rather than severity; taking the burden off the 
backs of the weak, and laying it on those of the strong. Your 
mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the 
rod, was passed by with indulgence; but the claims of justice 
were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some little, 
tough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked 
and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. 
All this he called "doing his duty by their parents;" and he 
never inflicted a chastisement without following it by the as- 
surance so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that "he would 
remember it and thank him for it the longest day he had to 
live." 

When school hours were over, he was even the companion 
and playmate of the larger boys; and on holiday afternoons 
would convey some of the smaller ones home, who happened 
to have pretty sisters or good housewives for mothers, noted 
for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed, it behooved him 
to keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising 
from his school was small, and would have been scarcely suffi- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 15 

cient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge 
feeder, and though lank, had the dilating powers of an ana- 
conda; but to help out his maintenance, he was, according 
to country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the 
houses of the farmers, whose children he instructed. With 
these he lived successively a week at a time, thus going the 
rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied 
up in a cotton handkerchief. 

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of 
his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of school- 
ing a grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he 
had various ways of rendering himself both useful and agree- 
able. He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter la- 
bors of their farms; helped to make hay; mended the fences; 
took the horses to water; drove the cows from pasture; and 
cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dom- 
inant dignity and absolute sway with which he lorded it in 
his little empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle 
and ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of the mothers 
by petting the children, particularly the youngest; and like 
the lion bold, which whilom so magnanimously the lamb did 
hold, he would sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle 
with his foot for whole hours together. 

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing- 
master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright shil- 
lings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a 
matter of no little vanity to him on Sundays, to take his 
station in front of the church gallery, with a band of chosen 
singers; where, in his own mind, he completely carried away 
the palm from the parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded 
far above all the rest of the congregation, and there are pe- 
culiar quavers still to be heard in that church, and which may 
even be heard half a mile off, quite to the opposite side of the 
mill-pond, on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be 
legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, 
by divers little makeshifts, in that ingenious way which is 
commonly denominated "by hook and by crook," the worthy 
pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all 
who understood nothing of the labor of head-work, to have a 
wonderful easy life of it. 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in 
the female circle of a rural neighborhood; being considered 
a kind of idle gentleman-like personage, of vastly superior 



16 WASHINGTON IRVING 

taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, 
indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. His appear- 
ance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea- 
table of a farm-house, and the addition of a supernumerary 
dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or peradventure, the parade of 
a silver tea-pot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly 
happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he w^ould 
figure among them in the churchyard, between services on 
Sundays! gather grapes for them from the wild vines that 
overrun the surrounding trees; reciting for their amusement 
all the epitaphs on the tombstones; or sauntering with a whole 
bevy of them along the banks of the adjacent mill-pond; while 
the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, 
envying his superior elegance and address. 

From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travel- 
ing gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from 
house to house; so that his appearance was always greeted 
with satisfaction. He was, moreover, esteemed by the women 
as a man of great erudition, for he had read several books quite 
through, and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's History 
of New England Witchcraft, in which, by the way, he most 
firmly and potently believed. 

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and 
simple credulity. His appetite for the marvelous and his 
powers of digesting it w^ere equally extraordinary; and both 
had been increased by his residence in this spell-bound region. 
No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. 
It was often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the 
afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover, bor- 
dering the little brook that whimpered by his school-house, 
and there con over old Mather's direful tales, until the gather- 
ing dusk of evening made the printed page a mere mist before 
his eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and stream 
and awful woodland, to the farm-house where he happened to 
be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, 
fluttered his excited imagination: the moan of the whip-poor- 
will* from the hillside; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that 
harbinger of storm; the dreary hooting of the screech-owl; 
or the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from 
their roost. The fire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly 

* The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. 
It receives its name from its note, which is thought to resembl© 
those words. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 17 

in the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of 
■ancommon brightness would stream across his path; and if, 
by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his 
blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to 
give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a 
witch's token. His only resource on such occasions, either 
to drown thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm 
tunes; — and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by 
their doors of an evening, were often filled with awe, at hear- 
ing his nasal melody, "in linked sweetness long drawn out," 
floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky road. 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was, to pass long 
winter evenings with the old Dutch wives as they sat spinning 
by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and sputtering along 
the hearth, and listen to their marvelous tales of ghosts, and 
goblins, and haunted fields and haunted brooks, and haunted 
bridges and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless 
horseman, or galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they some- 
times called him. He would delight them equally by his anec- 
dotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and portentous 
sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the early times 
of Connecticut; and would frighten them woefully with spec- 
ulations upon comets and shooting stars, and with the alarm- 
ing fact that the world did absolutely turn round, and that 
they were half the time topsy-turvy! 

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cud- 
dling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a 
ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of course, 
no specter dared to show its face, it was dearly purchased by 
the terrors of his subsequent walk homewards. What fearful 
shapes and shadows beset his path, amidst the dim and ghast- 
ly glare of a snowy night! With what wistful look did he 
eye every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste 
fields from some distant window! How often was he appalled 
by some shrub covered with snow, which like a sheeted specter 
beset his very path! How often did he shrink with curdling 
awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath 
his feet; and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should 
behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him! — and 
how often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rush- 
ing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the 
galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings! 

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phan- 



18 WASHINGTON iRVINC ___^ 

toms of the mind, that walk in darkness: and though he had 
seen many specters in his time, and been more than once 
beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely perambulations, 
yet daylight put an end to all these evils; and he would have 
passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the Devil and all 
his works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that 
causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, 
and the whole race of witches put together; and that was — 
a woman. 

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening 
in each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was 
Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a substan- 
tial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen; 
plump as a partridge; ripe and melting and rosy-cheeked as 
one of her father's peaches, and universally famed, not merely 
for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a 
little of a coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress, 
which was a mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most 
suited to set off her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure 
yellow gold, which her great-great-grandmother had brought 
over from Saardam; the tempting stomacher of the olden 
time, and withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display the 
prettiest foot and ankle in the country round. 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the sex; 
and it is not to be wondered at, that so tempting a morsel soon 
found favor in his eyes, more especially after he had visited 
her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a 
perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted far- 
mer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts 
beyond the boundaries of his own farm; but within these, 
everything was snug, happy and well-conditioned. He was 
satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it; and piqued him- 
self upon the hearty abundance, rather than the style in which 
he lived. His stronghold was situated on the banks of the 
Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in 
which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great 
elm-tree spread its broad branches over it; at the foot of which 
bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a 
little well, formed of a barrel; and then stole sparkling away 
through the grass, to a neighboring brook, that babbled along 
among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farm-house 
was a vast barn, that might have served for a church; every 
window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 19 

treasures of the farm; the flail was busily resounding within 
it from morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed 
twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, some with 
one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their 
heads under their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and others, 
swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames, were 
enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek unwieldy porkers 
were grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens, 
from whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking 
piffs, as if to sniff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese 
were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of 
ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the farm- 
yard, and guinea-fowls fretting about it like ill-tempered 
house-wives, with their peevish, discontented cry. Before the 
barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, 
a warrior, and a flne gentleman; clapping his burnished wings 
and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart — some- 
times tearing up the earth with his feet, and then generously 
calling his ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy 
the rich morsel which he had discovered. 

The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon this 
sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devour- 
ing mind's eye, he pictured to himself every roasting pig run- 
ning about, with a pudding in its belly, and an apple in its 
mouth; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable 
pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese were 
swimming in their own gravy; and the ducks pairing cozily 
in dishes, like snug married couples, with a decent competency 
of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the future 
sleek side of bacon, and juicy relishing ham; not a turkey, 
but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its 
wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory sausages; and 
even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his back, 
in a side dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter 
which his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled 
his great green eyes over the fat meadow lands, the rich fields 
of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the or- 
chards burdened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm 
tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel 
who was to inherit these domains, and his imagination ex- 
panded wdth the idea, how they might be readily turned into 
cash, and the money invested in immense tracts of wild land. 



20 WASHINGTON IRVING 

and shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy al- 
ready realized his hopes, and presented to him the blooming 
Katrina, with a whole family of children mounted on the top 
of a wagon loaded with household trumpery, with pots and 
kettles dangling beneath; and he beheld himself bestriding a 
pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for Ken- 
tucky, Tennessee — or the Lord knows where! 

When he entered the house, the conquest of his heart was 
complete. It was one of those spacious farm-houses, with high- 
ridged, but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style handed down 
from the first Dutch settlers. The low projecting eaves form- 
ing a piazza along the front, capable of being closed up in 
bad weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, various 
utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the neighboring 
river. Benches were built along the sides for summer use; 
and a great spinning-wheel at one end, and a churn at the 
other, showed the various uses to which this important porch 
might be devoted. From this piazza the wonderful Ichabod 
entered the hall, which formed the center of the mansion, and 
the place of usual residence. Here, rows of resplendent pewter, 
ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood 
a huge bag of wool, ready to be spun; in another, a quantity 
of linsey-woolsey Just from the loom; ears of Indian corn, 
and strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons 
along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers; and a 
door left ajar, gave him a peep into the best parlor, where 
the claw-footed chairs, and dark mahogany tables, shone like 
mirrors; andirons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, 
glistened from their covert of asparagus tops; mock-oranges 
and conch-shells decorated the mantelpiece; strings of various 
colored birds' eggs were suspended above it; a great ostrich 
egg was hung from the center of the room, and a corner cup- 
board, knowingly left open, displayed immense treasures of 
old silver and well-mended china. 

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions 
of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only 
study was how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter 
of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real 
difficulties than generally fell to the lot of a knight-errant of 
yore, who seldom had anything but giants, enchanters, fiery 
dragons, and such like easily conquered adversaries, to con- 
tend with, and he had to make his way merely through gates 
of iron and brass, and walls of adamant to the eastle-keep, 

19 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 21 

where the lady of his heart was confined; all which he 
achieved as easily as a man would carve his way to the center 
of a Christmas pie, and then the lady gave him her hand as 
a matter of course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his 
way to the heart of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth 
of whims and caprices, which were forever presenting new 
difficulties and impediments, and he had to encounter a host 
of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, and numerous 
rustic admirers, who beset every portal to her heart; keeping 
a watchful and angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly 
out in the common cause against any new competitor. 

Among these, the most formidable was a burly, roaring, 
roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, or according to 
the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the 
country round, which rung with his feats of strength and 
hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double- jointed, with 
short, curly black hair, and a bluff, but not unpleasant coun- 
tenance, having a mingled air of fun and arrogance. From 
his Herculean frame and great powers of limb, he had re- 
ceived the nickname of Brom Bones, by which he was uni- 
versally known. He was famed for great knowledge and skill 
in horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. 
He was foremost at all races and cock-fights, and with the 
ascendancy which bodily strength always acquires in rustic 
life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one side, 
and giving his decisions with an air and tone that admitted 
of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either a 
fight or a frolic; had more mischief than ill-will in his com- 
position; and with all his overbearing roughness, there was a 
strong dash of waggish good-humor at bottom. He had three 
or four boon companions of his own stamp, who regarded him 
as their model, and at the head of whom he scoured the coun- 
try, attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles 
around. In cold weather, he was distinguished by a fur cap, 
surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail; and when the folks at 
a country gathering descried this well-known crest at a dis- 
tance, whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they al- 
ways stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard 
dashing along past the farm-houses at midnight, with whoop 
and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks, and the old dames, 
startled out of their sleep, would listen for a moment till the 
hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, '^Ay, there 
goes Brom Bones and his gang!" The neighbors looked upon 



22 WASHINGTON IRVING 



him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and good-will; and 
when any madcap prank or rustic brawl occurred in the vicin- 
ity, always shook their heads, and warranted Brom Bones was 
at the bottom of it. 

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the 
blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, 
and though his amorous toyings were something like the gen- 
tle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered 
that she did not altogether discourage his hopes. Certain it 
is, his advances were signals for rival candidates to retire, who 
felt no inclination to cross a lion in his amours; insomuch, 
that when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel's palings, on 
a Sunday night, a sure sign that his master was courting, or, 
as it was termed, '^sparking" within, all other suitors passed 
by in despair, and carried the war into others quarters. 

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane 
had to contend, and considering all things, a stouter man 
than he would have shrunk from the competition, and a wiser 
man would have despaired. He had, however, a happy mix- 
ture of pliability and perseverance in his nature; he was in 
form and spirit like a supple-jack — yielding, but tough; 
though he bent, he never broke; and though he bowed be- 
neath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away — 
jerk! — he was as erect, and carried his head as high as ever. 

To have taken the field openly against his rival would have 
been madness; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his 
amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, 
therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently insinuating 
manner. Under cover of his character of singing-master, he 
made frequent visits at the farm-house; not that he had any- 
thing to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of par- 
ents, which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. 
Bait Van Tassel was an easy indulgent soul; he loved his 
daughter better even than his pipe, and like a reasonable 
man, and an excellent father, let her have her way in every- 
thing. His notable little wife, too, had enough to do to at- 
tend to her housekeeping and manage the poultry; for, as she 
sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must 
be looked after, but girls can take care of themselves. ^ Thus, 
while the busy dame bustled about the house, or plied her 
spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Bait would 
sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching the 
achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, armed with a 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 23 



Bword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind on 
the pinnacle of the barn. In the meantime, Ichabod would 
carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of the spring 
under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, that 
hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence. 

I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and 
won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and 
admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, 
or door of access; while others have a thousand avenues, and 
may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a great 
triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater proof 
of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for a man 
must battle for his fortress at every door and window. He 
that wins a thousand common hearts, is therefore entitled to 
some renown; but he who keeps undisputed sway over the 
heart of a coquette, is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not 
the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones; and from the 
moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of 
the former evidently declined: his horse was no longer seen 
tied at the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud grad- 
ually arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow. 

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, 
would fain have carried matters to open warfare, and settled 
their pretensions to the lady, according to the mode of those 
most concise and simple reasoners, the knights-errant of yore 
— by single combat; but Ichabod was too conscious of the 
superior might of his adversary to enter the lists against 
him; he had overheard the boast of Bones that he would 
"double the schoolmaster up, and put him on a shelf," and 
he was too wary to give him an opportunity. There was 
something extremely provoking in this obstinately pacific sys- 
tem; it left Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds 
of rustic waggery in his disposition, and to play off boorish 
practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object 
of whimsical persecutions to Bones and his gang of rough 
riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains; smoked 
out his singing-school by stopping up the chimney; broke 
into the school-house at night, in spite of its formidable fas- 
tenings of withe and window-stakes, and turned everything 
topsy-turvy; so that the poor schoolmaster began to think all 
the witches in the country held their meetings there. But 
what was still more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of 
turning him into ridicule in presence of his mistress, and had 



24 WASHINGTON IRVING 

a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine in the most ludi- 
crous manner, and introduced as a rival of lehabod's, to in- 
struct her in psalmody. 

In this way, matters went on for some time, without pro- 
ducing any material effect on the relative situations of the 
contending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, 
in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool from whence 
he usually watched all the concerns of his literary realm. In 
his hand he swayed a ferule, that scepter of despotic power; 
the birch of justice reposed on three nails, behind the throne, 
a constant terror to evil doers; while on the desk before him 
might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited 
weapons, detected upon the persons of idle urchins; such as 
half-munched apples, pop-guns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and 
whole legions of rampant little paper game-cocks. Apparently 
there had been some appalling act of justice recently inflicted, 
for the scholars were all busily intent upon their books, or 
slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the 
master; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout 
the school-room. It was suddenly interrupted by the appear- 
ance of a negro in tow-cloth jacket and trousers, a round 
crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and 
mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half -broken colt, which 
he managed with a rope by way of a halter. He came clatter- 
ing up to the school-door with an invitation to Ichabod to at- 
tend a merry-making, or ^^quilting-frolie,'^ to be held that 
evening at Mynheer Van TasseFs; and having delivered his 
message with that air of importance, and effort at fine lan- 
guage, which a negro is apt to display on petty embassies of 
the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scamper- 
ing away up the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of 
his mission. 

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school- 
room. The scholars were hurried through their lessons, with- 
out stopping at trifles; those who were nimble, skipped over 
half with impunity, and those who were tardy, had a smart 
application now and then in the rear, to quicken their speed, 
or help them over a tall word. Books were flung aside, with- 
out being put away on the shelves; inkstands were overturned, 
benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose 
an hour before the usual time; bursting forth like a legion of 
young imps, yelping and racketing about the green, in joy at 
their early emancipation. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 25 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half-hour 
at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed 
only suit of rusty black, and arranging his locks by a bit of 
broken looking-glass, that hung up in the school-house. That 
he might make his appearance before his mistress in the true 
style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with 
whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman, of the 
name of Hans Van Eipper, and thus gallantly mounted, is- 
sued forth like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But 
it is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give 
some account of the looks and equipments of my hero and his 
steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plough- 
horse, and had outlived almost everything but his viciousness. 
He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like 
a hammer; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted 
with burrs; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and 
spectral, but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. 
Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may 
judge from his name, which was Gunpowder. He had, in 
fact, been a favorite steed of his master's, the choleric Van 
Eipper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very prob- 
ably, some of his own spirit into the animal; for, old and 
broken-down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil 
in him than in any young filly in the country. 

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode 
with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the 
pommel of the saddle: his sharp elbows stuck out like grass- 
hoppers'; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, 
like a scepter, and as the horse Jogged on, the motion of his 
arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small 
wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip 
of forehead might be called, and the skirts of his black coat 
fluttered out almost to the horse's tail. Such was the ap- 
pearance of Ichabod and his steed as they shambled out of the 
gate of Hans Van Eipper, and it was altogether such an appari- 
tion as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight. 

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day; the sky was 
clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery 
which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The 
forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some 
trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into 
brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files 
of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air; 



26 WASHINGTON IRVING 

the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of 
beech and hickory-nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail 
at intervals from the neighboring stubble field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In 
the fullness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frol- 
icking, from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the 
very profusion and variety around them. There was the honest 
cockrobin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its 
loud querulous note, and the twittering blackbirds flying in 
sable clouds; and the golden-winged wood-pecker, with his 
crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage; 
and the cedar-bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt 
tail and its little monteiro cap of feathers: and the blue jay, 
that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light blue coat and white un- 
derclothes, screaming and chattering, nodding, and bobbing, 
and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every 
songster of the grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open 
to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight 
over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld 
vast stores of apples, some hanging in oppressive opulence on 
the trees; some gathered into baskets and barrels for the 
market; others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. 
Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its 
golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out 
the promise of cakes and hasty-pudding; and the yellow 
pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair round 
bellies to the sun, and giving ample prospects of the most 
luxurious of pies; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat 
fields breathing the odor of the beehive; and as he beheld 
them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slap- 
jacks, well-buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by 
the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and "sug- 
ared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a range 
of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of 
the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his broad 
disk down in the west. The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee 
lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here and there a 
gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of 
the distant mountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky^, 
without a breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a 
fine golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple green, 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 27 

and from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slant- 
ing ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that 
overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depth to the 
dark gray and purple of their rocky sides. A siocp was loiter- 
ing in the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her 
sail hanging uselessly against the mast; and as the reflection 
of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if the 
vessel was suspended in the air. 

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of 
the Herr Van Tassel, whicJi he found thronged with the pride 
and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, a spare 
leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue 
stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. Their 
briskj withered little dames, in close crimped caps, long-waist- 
ed gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pin-cushions, 
and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, 
almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw 
hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of 
city innovations. The sons, in short square skirted coats, with 
rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally 
queued in the fashion of the times, especially if they could 
procure an eelskin for the purpose, it being esteemed through- 
out the country as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the 
hair. 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having 
come to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a crea- 
ture, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and which no 
one but himself could manage. He was, in fact, noted for 
preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks which 
kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, for he held a 
tractable, well-broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit. 

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that 
burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the 
state parlor of Van Tassel's mansion. ]N'ot those of the bevy 
of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of red and white; 
but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea-table, 
in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped-up platters 
of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, known 
only to experienced Dutch housewives! There was the doughty 
doughnut, the tender olykoek, and the crisp and crumpling 
cruller; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey 
cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then there were 
apple pies, and pumpkin pies; besides slices of ham and 



28 WASHINGTON IRVING 

smoked beef; and moreover delectable dishes of preserved 
plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces; not to mention 
broiled shad and roasted chickens; together with bowls of 
milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much 
as I have enumerated them, with the motherly tea-pot sending 
up its clouds of vapor from the midgt — Heaven bless the 
mark! I want breath and time to discuss this banquet as it 
deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. Happily, 
Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his historian, but 
did ample Justice to every dainty. 

He was a land and thankful creature, whose heart dilated 
in proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer, and whose 
spirits rose with eating, as some men's do with drink. He 
could not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, 
and chuckling with possibiUty that he might one day be lord 
of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. 
Then, he thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the old 
school-house; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van Eip- 
per, and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itiner- 
ant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him com- 
rade! 

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with 
a face dilated with content and good-humor, round and joiiy 
as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, but 
expressive, being confined to a shake of the head, a slap on the 
shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to "fall to, 
and help themselves.^^ 

And now the sound of the music from the common room, 
or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old 
gray-headed negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of 
the whole neighborhood for more than half a century. His 
instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greater 
part of the time he scraped away on two or three strings, ac- 
companying every movement of the bow with a motion of the 
head; bowing almost to the ground, and stamping with his 
foot whenever a fresh couple were to start. 

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon 
his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fiber about him was 
idle; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, 
and clattering about the room, you w^ould have thought St. 
Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring 
before you in person. He was the admiration of all the 
negroes; who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 29 

farm and neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining 
black faces at every door and window; gazing with delight at 
the scene; rolling their white eye-balls, and showing grinning 
rows of ivory from ear to ear. How conld the flogger of urch- 
ins be otherwise than animated and joyous? the lady of his 
heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in 
reply to all his amorous oglings; while Brom BoneSj sorely 
smitten with love and Jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one 
corner. 

When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to 
a knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, sat smok- 
ing at one end of the piazza, gossiping over former times, and 
drawling out long stories about the war. 

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, 
was one of those highly favored places which abound with 
chronicle and great men. The British and American line had 
run near it during the war; it had, therefore, been the scene 
of marauding, and infested with refugees, cow-boys, and all 
kind of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to 
enable each story-teller to dress up his tale with a little becom- 
ing fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his recollection, to 
make himself the hero of every exploit. 

There was the story of Doffue Martling^, a large blue-beard- 
ed Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with an 
old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his 
gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentle- 
man who shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer to be 
lightly mentioned, who in the battle of Whiteplains, being an 
excellent master of defense, parried a musket-ball with a small 
sword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the 
blade, and glance off at the hilt; in proof of which he was 
ready at any time to show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. 
There were several more that had been equally great in the 
field, not one of whom but was persuaded that he had a con- 
siderable hand in bringing the war to a happy termination. 

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and ap- 
paritions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legend- 
ary treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive 
best in these sheltered, long-settled retreats, but are trampled 
under foot by the shifting throng that forms the population 
of most of our country places. Besides, there is no encour- 
agement for ghosts in most of our villages, for they have 
scarcely time to finish their first nap, and turn themselves in 



30 WASHINGTON IRVING 

their graves, before their surviving friends have traveled away 
from the neighborhood; so that when they turn out at night 
to walk their rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call 
upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of 
ghosts except in our long-established Dutch communities. 

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of super- 
natural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the 
vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very 
air that blew from that haunted region; it breathed forth an 
atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all the land. Sev- 
eral of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van Tassel's, 
and, as usual, were doling out their wild and wonderful leg- 
ends. Many dismal tales were told about funeral trains, and 
mourning cries and wailings heard and seen about the great 
tree where the unfortunate Major Andre was taken, and which 
stood in the neighborhood. Some mention was made also of 
the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Eaven 
Eock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights before a 
storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief part of 
the stories, however, turned upon the favorite specter of 
Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who had been heard 
several times of late, patrolling the country; and it is said, 
tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the church- 
yard. 

The sequestered situation of this church seems always to 
have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands 
on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from 
among which its decent, whitewashed walls shine modestly 
forth, like Christian purity, beaming through the shades of 
retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet 
of water, bordered by high trees, between which, peeps may 
be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its 
grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, 
one would think that there at least the dead might rest in 
peace. On one side of the church extends a wide woody dell, 
along which raves a large brook among broken rocks and 
trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of the stream, 
not far from the church, was formerly thrown a wooden 
bridge; the road that led to it, and the bridge itself, were 
thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about 
it, even in the day-time; but occasioned a fearful darkness at 
night. Such was one of the favorite haunts of the headless 
horseman, and the place where he was most frequently en- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 31 

countered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical 
disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horseman returning 
from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up 
behind him; how they galloped over bush and brake, over 
hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge; when the horse- 
man suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into 
the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of 
thunder. 

This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvelous 
adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the galloping 
Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed, that on returning 
one night from the neighboring village of Sing-Sing, he had 
been overtaken by a midnight trooper; that he had offered 
to race him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it too, 
for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but just as they 
came to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished 
in a flash of fire. 

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which 
men talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only 
now and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a 
pipe, sunk deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in 
Idnd with large extracts from his invaluable author, Cotton 
Mather, and added many marvelous events that had taken 
place in his native State of Connecticut, and fearful 
sights which he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy 
Hollow, 

The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gath- 
ered together their families in their wagons, and were heard 
for some time rattling along the hollow roads, and over the 
distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on pillions be- 
hind their favorite swains, and their light-hearted laughter 
mingling with the clattering of hoofs, echoed along the silent 
woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter, until they gradually 
died away — and the late scene of noise and frolic was all 
silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered behind, according 
to the custom of country lovers, to have a tete-a-tete with the 
heiress; fully convinced that he was now on the high road to 
success. What passed at this interview I will not pretend to 
say, for in fact I do not know. Something, however, I fear 
me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after 
no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and chap- 
fallen — Oh, these women! these women! Could that girl 
have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks? Was her 



32 WASHINGTON IRVING 

encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to se- 
cure her conquest of his rival? Heaven only knows, not I! 
Let it sufEce to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one 
who had been sacking a hen-roost, rather than a fair lady's 
heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice the 
scene of rural wealth, on which he had so often gloated, he 
went straight to the stable, and with several hearty cuffs and 
kicks, roused his steed most uncourteously from the comfort- 
able quarters in which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of 
mountains of corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and 
clover. 

It was the very witching hour of night that Ichabod, heavy- 
hearted, and crest-fallen, pursued his travel homewards, along 
the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and 
which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The 
hour was as dismal as himself. Far below him the Tappan 
Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here 
and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor 
under the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could even 
hear the barking of the watch-dog from the opposite shore of 
the Hudson; but it was so vague and faint as only to give an 
idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man. 
Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, acci- 
dentally awakened, would sound far, far off, from some farm- 
house away among the hills — but it was only like a dreaming 
sound to his ear. No sign of life occurred near him, but oc- 
casionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the 
gutteral twang of a bull-frog from a neighboring marsh, as 
if sleeping uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in his 
bed. 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in 
the afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection. The 
night grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink 
deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them 
from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He 
was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of the 
scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the center of 
tlie road stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered like a 
giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed 
a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, 
large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down 
almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was 
connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate Andre^ 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 33 

who had been taken prisoner hard by, and was nniversally 
known by the name of Major Andre's tree. The common peo- 
ple regarded it with a mixture of respect and superstition, 
partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred namesake^ 
and partly from the tales of strange sights, and doleful lamen- 
tations, told concerning it. 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whis- 
tle; he thought his whistle was answered: it was but a blast 
sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As he approached 
a little nearer, he thought he saw something white hanging in 
the midst of the tree: he paused, and ceased whistling; but 
on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where 
the tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood 
laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan — his teeth chattered, 
and his knees smote against the saddle: it was but the rub- 
bing of one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed 
about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new 
perils lay before him. 

About two hundred yards from the tree, a small brook 
crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded 
glen, known by the name of Wiley's Swamp. A few rough 
logs laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream. 
On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood, 
a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape- 
vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge 
was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the 
unfortunate Andre w^as captured, and under the covert of 
those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed 
who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a 
haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of a school-boy 
who has to pass it alone after dark. 

As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump; 
he summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse 
half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly 
across the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the per- 
verse old animal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside 
against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the 
delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily 
with the contrary foot; it was all in vain; his steed started, it 
is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite of the road 
into a thicket of brambles and alder-bushes. The schoolmas- 
ter now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starvling ribg 
of old Gunpowder, who dashed forwards, snuffing and snort- 



34 WASHINGTON IRVING 



ing, but came to a stand just at the bridge, with a suddenness 
that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just 
at this moment a splashy tramp by the side of the bridge 
caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of 
the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something 
huge, misshapen, black and towering. It stirred not, but 
seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster 
ready to spring upon the traveler. 

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head 
with terror. What was to be done? To turn and fly was 
now too late; and besides, what chance was there of escaping 
ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the 
wings of the wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show of 
courage, he demanded in stammering accents — "Who are 
you?" He received no reply. He repeated his demand in a 
still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once 
more he cudgeled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and 
shutting his eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervor into a 
psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself 
in motion, and with a scramble and a bound, stood at once 
in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark and 
dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some de- 
gree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large 
dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. 
He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof 
on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old 
Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and wayward- 
ness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight com- 
panion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom 
Bones with the galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed, 
in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, 
quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and 
fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind — the other did the 
same. His heart began to sink within him; he endeavored 
to resume his psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the 
roof of his mouth, and he could not utter a stave. There was 
something in the moody and dogged silence of this perti- 
nacious companion that was mysterious and appalling. ^ It 
was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising 
ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveler in re- 
lief against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, 
Ichabod was horror-struck, on perceiving that he was head- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 35 

less! but his horror was still more increased, on observing 
that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was 
carried before him on the pommel of his saddle! His terror 
rose to desperation; he rained a shower of kicks and blows 
upon Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to give his 
companion the slip — but the specter started full jump with 
him. Away then they dashed through thick and thin, 
stones flying and sparks flashing at every bound. Ichabod's 
flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long 
lank body away over his horse's head, in the eagerness of his 
flight. 

They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy 
Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, 
instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged 
headlong down hill to the left. This road leads through a 
sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, 
where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story; and just 
beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the white- 
washed church. 

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskillful rider 
an apparent advantage in the chase; but just as he had 
got half way through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave 
way, and he felt it slipping from under him. He seized 
it by the pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain; 
and had just time to save himself by clasping old Gun- 
powder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and 
he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a 
moment the terror of Hans Van Eipper's wrath passed across 
his mind — for it was his Sunday saddle; but this was no time 
for petty fears; the goblin was hard on his haunches; and 
(unskilled rider that he was!) he had much ado to maintain 
his seat; sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on an- 
other, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse's 
backbone, with a violence that he verily feared would cleave 
him asunder. 

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes 
that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection 
of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was 
not mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring 
under the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom 
Bones' ghostly competitor had disappeared. "H I can but 
reach that bridge," thought Ichabod, "I am safe." Just then 
he heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind 



36 WASHINGTON IRVING 

him; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another 
convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprung upon 
the bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; he 
gained the opposite side, and now Ichabod cast a look behind 
to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash 
of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in 
his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him. 
Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. 
It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash — ^he was 
tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black 
steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a wliirlwind. 

The next morning the old horse was found without his 
saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping 
the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not make his ap- 
pearance at breakfast — dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. 
The boys assembled at the school-house, and strolled idl}' 
about the banks of the brook; but no schoolmaster. Hans 
Van Eipper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate 
of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, 
and after diligent investigation they came upon his traces. 
In one part of the road leading to the church, was found the 
saddle trampled in the dirt; the tracks of horses' hoofs deeply 
dented in the road, and, evidently at furious speed, were traced 
to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the 
brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the 
hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shat- 
tered pumpkin. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster 
was not to be discovered. Hans Van Eipper, as executor of 
his estate, examined the bundle which contained all his world- 
ly effects. They consisted of two shirts and a half; two 
stocks for the neck; a pair or two of worsted stockings; an old 
pair of corduroy small-clothes; a rusty razor; a book of psalm 
tunes full of dog's ears; and a broken piteh-pipe. As to the 
books and furniture of the school-house, they belonged to the 
community, excepting Cotton Mather's History of Witchcraft, 
a New England Almanac, and a book of dreams and fortune- 
telling; in which last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled 
and blotted, by several fruitless attempts to make a copy of 
verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic 
books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the 
flames by Hans Van Eipper; who, from that time forward, 
determined to send his children no more to school; observing 

20 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 37 

that he never knew any good come of this same reading and 
writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster possessed, and 
he had received his quarter's pay but a day or two before, he 
must have had about his person at the time of his disap- 
pearance. 

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the 
church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gos- 
sips were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, and at 
the spot where the hat and pumpkin had been found. The 
stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of others, 
were called to mind; and when they had diligently considered 
them all, and compared them with the symptoms of the pres- 
ent case, they shook their heads, and came to the conclusion, 
that Ichabod had been carried off by the galloping Hessian. 
As he was a bachelor, and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled 
his head any more about him; the school was removed to a 
different quarter of the Hollow, and another pedagogue 
reigned in his stead. 

It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New York 
on a visit several years after, and from whom this account of 
the ghostly adventure was received, brought home the intelli- 
gence that Ichabod Crane was still alive; that he had left 
the neighborhood partly through fear of the goblin and Hans 
Van Eipper, and partly in mortification at having been sud- 
denly dismissed by the heiress; that he had changed his quar- 
ters to a distant part of the country; had kept school and 
studied law at the same time; had been admitted to the bar; 
turned politician; electioneered; written for the newspapers; 
and finally, had been made a Justice of the Ten Pound Court. 
Brom Bones, too, who, shortly after his rival's disappearance, 
conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was 
observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of 
Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at 
the mention of the pumpkin; which led some to suspect that 
he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell. 

The old country wives, however, who are the best judges 
of these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirit- 
ed away by supernatural means; and it is a favorite story often 
told about the neighborhood round the winter evening fire. 
The bridge became more than ever an object of superstitious 
awe; and that may be the reason why the road has been al- 
tered of late years, so as to approach the church by the border 
of the mill-pond. The school-house being deserted, soon fell 



38 WASHINGTON IRVING 

to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the 
unfortunate pedagogue; and the plough-boy, loitering home- 
ward of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice 
at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the 
tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 39 



POSTSCEIPT. 

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER. 

The preceding Tale is given, almost in the precise words 
in which I heard it related at a Corporation meeting of the 
ancient city of the Manhattoes,* at which were present many 
of its sagest and most illustrious burghers. The narrator was 
a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow in pepper-and-salt 
clothes, with a sadly humorous face; and one whom I strongly 
suspected of being poor — he made such efforts to be entertain- 
ing. When his story was concluded there was much laughter 
and approbation, particularly from two or three deputy alder- 
men, who had been asleep the greater part of the time. 
There was, however, one tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with 
beetling eye-brows, who maintained a grave and rather severe 
face throughout; now and then folding his arms, inclining his 
head, and looking down upon the floor, as if turning a doubt 
over in his mind. He was one of your wary men, who never 
laugh but upon good grounds — when they have reason and 
the law on their side. When the mirth of the rest of the 
company had subsided, and silence was restored, he leaned 
one arm on the elbow of his chair, and sticking the other a- 
kimbo, demanded with a slight but exceedingly sage motion 
of the head, and contraction of the brow, what was the moral 
of the story, and what it went to prove. 

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to 
his lips, as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, 
looked at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and 
lowering the glass slowly to the table observed that the story 
was intended most logically to prove: 

"That there is no situation in life but has its advant- 
ages and pleasures — provided we will but take a joke as we 
find it: 

"That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers, is 
likely to have rough riding of it: 

"Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand 

* New York. 



40 WASHINGTON IRVING 

of a Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in the 
state/' 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer 
after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination 
of the syllogism; while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt 
eyed him with something of a triumphant leer. At length he 
observed that all this was very well, but still he thought the 
story a little on the extravagant — ^there were one or two 
points on which he had his doubts. 

"Faith, sir,'' replied the story-teller, "as to that matter, I 
don't believe one-half of it myself." 

D.K. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 41 



TEAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. ^ 

*'I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin 
hungry, and he gave him not to eat; if ever he came cold and 
naked, and he clothed him not." — Speech of an Indian Chief. 

There is something in the character and habits of the North 
American savage, taken in connection with the scenery over 
which he is accustomed to range, its vast lakes, boundless 
forests, majestic rivers, and trackless plains, that is, to my 
mind, wonderfully striking and sublime. He is formed for 
the wilderness, as the Arab is for the desert His nature is 
stern, simple, and enduring; fitted to grapple with difficulties, 
and to support privations. There seems but little soil in his 
heart for the growth of the kindly virtues; and yet, if we 
would but take the trouble to penetrate through that proud 
stoicism and habitual taciturnity, which lock up his character 
from casual observation, we should find him linked to his fel- 
low man of civilized life by more of those sympathies and af- 
fections than are usually ascribed to him. 

It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of Amer- 
ica, in the early periods of colonization, to be doubly wronged 
by the white men. They have been dispossessed of their 
hereditary possessions, by mercenary and frequently wanton 
warfare; and their characters have been traduced by bigoted 
and interested writers. The colonist has often treated them 
like beasts of the forest; and the author has endeavored to 
justify him in his outrages. The former found it easier to 
exterminate than to civilize — ^the latter to vilify than to dis- 
criminate. The appellations of savage and pagan were deemed 
sufficient to sanction the hostilities of both; and thus the 
poor wanderers of the forest were persecuted and defamed, 
not because they were guilty, but because they were igno- 
rant. 

The rights of the savage have seldom been properly ap- 
preciated or respected by the white man. In peace he has 
too often been the dupe of artful traffic; in war, he has been 
regarded as a ferocious animal, whose life or death was a 
question of mere precaution and convenience. Man is cruelly 
wasteful of life when his own safety is endangered, and he is 



42 WASHINGTON IRVING 

sheltered by impunity; and little mercy is to be expected 
from him when he feels the sting of the reptile, and is con- 
scious of the power to destroy. 

The same prejudices which were indulged thus early, ex- 
ist in common circulation at the present day. Certain learned 
societies have, it is true, with laudable diligence, endeavored 
to investigate and record the real characters and manners of 
the Indian tribes; the American government, too, has wisely 
and humanely exerted itself to inculcate a friendly and for- 
bearing spirit towards them, and to protect them from fraud 
and injustice.* The current opinion of the Indian character, 
however, is too apt to be formed from the miserable hordes 
which infest the frontiers, and hang on to the skirts of the set- 
tlements. These are too commonly composed of degenerate be- 
ings, corrupted and enfeebled by the vices of society, without 
being benefited by its civilization. That proud independence, 
which formed the main pillar of savage virtue, has been shaken 
down, and the whole moral fabric lies in ruins. Their spirits 
are humiliated and debased by a sense of inferiority, and their 
native courage cowed and daunted by the superior knowledge 
and power of their enlightened neighbors. Society has ad- 
vanced upon them like one of those withering airs that will 
sometimes breathe desolation over a whole region of fertility. 
It has enervated their strength, multiplied their diseases, and 
superinduced upon their original barbarity the low vices of 
artificial life. It has given them a thousand superfluous wants, 
whilst it has diminished their means of mere existence. It 
has driven before it the animals of the chase, who fly from the 
sound of the ax and the smoke of the settlement, and seek ref- 
uge in the depths of remoter forests and yet untrodden wilds. 
Thus do we too often find the Indians on our frontiers to be 
mere wrecks and remnants of once powerful tribes, who have 
lingered in the vicinity of the settlements, and sunk into pre- 
carious and vagabond existence. Poverty, repining and hope- 
less poverty, a canker of the mind unknown in savage life, 
corrodes their spirits and blights every free and noble quality 

* The American government has been indefatigable in its ex- 
ertions to meliorate the situation of the Indians, and to introduce 
among them the arts of civilization, and civil and religious 
knowledge. To protect them from the frauds of the white traders, 
no purchase of land from them by individuals is permitted; nor 
is any person allowed to receive lands from them as a present, 
without the express sanction of government. These precautions 
are strictly enforced. 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 43 

of their natures. They become drunken, indolent, feeble, 
thievish, and pusillanimous. They loiter like vagrants about 
the settlements among spacious dwellings, replete with elab- 
orate comforts, which only render them sensible of the com- 
parative wretchedness of their own condition. Luxury spreads 
its ample board before their eyes; but they are excluded 
from the banquet. Plenty revels over the fields; but they 
are starving in the midst of its abundance: the whole wilder- 
ness has blossomed into a garden; but they feel as reptiles that 
infest it. 

How different was their state, while yet the undisputed 
lords of the soil! Their wants were few, and the means of 
gratification within their reach. They saw everyone round 
them sharing the same lot, enduring the same hardships, 
feeding on the same ailments, arrayed in the same rude gar- 
ments. No roof then rose, but was open to the homeless 
stranger; no smoke curled among the trees, but he was wel- 
come to sit down by its fire and join the hunter in his repast. 
"For," says an old historian of New England, *Hheir life is 
so void of care, and they are so loving also, that they make 
use of those things they enjoy as common, and are therein 
so compassionate, that rather than one should starve through 
want, they would starve all; thus do they pass their time 
merrily, not regarding our pomp, but are better content with 
their own, which some men esteem so meanly of." Such were 
the Indians, whilst in the pride and energy of their primi- 
tive natures; they resemble those plants which thrive best in 
the shades of the forests, but shrink from the hand of cultiva- 
tion, and perish beneath the influence of the sun. 

In discussing the savage character, writers have been too 
prone to indulge in vulgar prejudice and passionate exaggera- 
tion, instead of the candid temper of true philosophy. They 
have not sufficiently considered the peculiar circumstances in 
which the Indians have been placed, and the peculiar prin- 
ciples under which they have been educated. No being acts 
more rigidly from rules than the Indian. His whole conduct 
is regulated according to some general maxims early implanted 
in his mind. The moral laws that govern him are, to be sure, 
but few; but then he conforms to them all;— the white man 
abounds in laws of religion, morals, and manners, but how 
many does he violate! 

A frequent ground of accusation against the Indians is their 
disregard of treaties^ and the treachery and wantonness with 



44 WASHINGTON IRVING 



wMch, in time of apparent peace, they will suddenly fly to 
hostilities. The intercourse of the white men with the In- 
dians, however, is too apt to be cold, distrustful, oppressive, 
and insulting. They seldom treat them with that confidence 
and frankness which are indispensable to real friendship; nor 
is sufficient caution observed not to offend against those feel- 
ings of pride or superstition which often prompt the Indian 
to hostility quicker than mere considerations of interest. The 
solitary savage feels silently, but acutely. His sensibilities 
are not diffused over so wide a surface as those of the white 
man; but they run in steadier and deeper channels. His 
pride, his affections, his superstitions, are all directed towards 
fewer objects; but the wounds inflicted on them are propor- 
tionably severe, and furnish motives of hostility which we 
cannot sufficiently appreciate. Where a community is also 
limited in number, and forms one great patriarchal family, 
as in an Indian tribe, the injury of an individual is the injury 
of the whole, and the sentiment of vengeance is almost instan- 
taneously diflused. One council-fire is sufficient for the dis- 
cussion and arrangement of a plan of hostilities. Here all the 
fighting men and sages assemble. Eloquence and superstition 
combine to inflame the minds of the warriors. The orator 
awakens their martial ardor, and they are wrought up to a kind 
of religious desperation, by the visions of the prophet and the 
dreamer. 

An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, arising 
from a motive peculiar to the Indian character, is extant in 
an old record of the early settlement of Massachusetts. The 
planters of Plymouth had defaced the monuments of the dead 
at Passonagessit, and had plundered the grave of the Sachem's 
mother of some skins with which it had been decorated. The 
Indians are remarkable for the reverence which they enter- 
tain for the sepulchers of their kindred. Tribes that have 
passed generations exiled from the abodes of their ancestors, 
when by chance they have been traveling in the vicinity, have 
been known to turn aside from the highway, and, guided by 
wonderfully accurate tradition, have crossed the country for 
miles to some tumulus, buried perhaps in woods, where the 
bones of their tribe were anciently deposited, and there have 
passed hours in silent meditation. Influenced by this sublime 
and holy feeling, the Sachem, whose mother's tomb had been 
violated, gathered his men together, and addressed them in 
the following beautifully simple and pathetic harangue; a 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 45 

curious specimen of Indian eloquence, and an affecting in- 
stance of filial piety in a savage: 

"When the last glorious light of all the sky was under- 
neath this globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, as 
my custom is, to take repose. Before mine eyes were fast 
closed, methought I saw a vision, at which my spirit was 
much troubled; and trembling at that doleful sight, a spirit 
cried aloud: *^Behold, my son, whom I have cherished, see 
the breasts that gave thee suck, the hands that lapped thee 
warm, and fed thee oft. Canst thou forget to take revenge 
of those wild people, who have defaced my monument in a 
despiteful manner, disdaining our antiquity and honorable 
customs? See, now, the Sachem's grave lies like the common 
people, defaced by an ignoble race. Thy mother doth com- 
plain, and implores thy aid against this thievish people, who 
have newly intruded on our land. If this be suffered, I shall 
not rest quiet in my everlasting habitation.' This said, the 
spirit vanished, and I, all in a sweat, not able scarce to speak, 
began to get some strength, and re-collected my spirits that 
Avere fled, and determined to demand your counsel and as- 
sistance.'' 

I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it tends 
to show how these sudden acts of hostility, which have been 
attributed to caprice and perfidy, may often arise from deep 
and generous motives, which our inattention to Indian charac- 
ter and customs preyent our properly appreciating. 

Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians, is 
their barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin partly 
in policy and partly in superstition. The tribes, though some- 
times called nations, were never so formidable in their num- 
ber, but that the loss of several warriors was sensibly felt; 
this was particularly the case when they had been frequently 
engaged in warfare; and many an instance occurs in Indian 
history, where a tribe, that had long been formidable to its 
neighbors, had been broken up and driven away, by the cap- 
ture and massacre of its principal fighting men. There was 
a strong temptation, therefore, to the victor to be merciless; 
not so much to gratify any cruel revenge, as to provide for 
future security. The Indians had also the superstitious be- 
lief, frequent among barbarous nations, and prevalent also 
among the ancients, that the manes of their friends, who 
had fallen in battle, were soothed by the blood of the captives. 
The prisoners, however, who are not thus sacrificed, are adopt- 



46 WASHINGTON IRVING 



ed into their families in the place of the slain, and are treated ] 

with the confidence and affection of relatives and friends; ? 

nay, so hospitable and tender is their entertainment, that ; 

when the alternative is offered them, they will often prefer to j 

remain with their adopted brethren, rather than return to the ] 

home and the friends of their youth. ; 

The cruelty of the Indians toward their prisoners has been \ 

heightened since the colonization of the whites. What was j 

formerly a compliance with policy and superstition, has been | 

exasperated into a gratification of vengeance. They cannot j 

but be sensible that the white men are the usurpers of their i 

ancient dominion, the cause of their degradation, and the { 

gradual destroyers of their race. They go forth to battle, j 

smarting with injuries and indignities which they have indi- i 

vidually suffered, and they are driven to madness and despair ; 

by the wide-spreading desolation, and the overwhelming ruin j 

of European warfare. The whites have too frequently set ] 

them an example of violence, by burning their villages and j 

laying waste their slender means of subsistence; and yet they I 

wonder that savages do not show moderation and magna- \ 

nimity towards those who have left them nothing but mere ex- ! 

istence and wretchedness. ! 

We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and treacher- j 

ous, because they use stratagem in warfare, in preference to j 

open force; but in this they are fully justified by their rude j 

code of honor. They are early taught that stratagem is j 

praiseworthy; the bravest warrior thinks it no disgrace to j 
lurk in silence, and take every advantage of his foe; he 
triumphs in the superior craft and sagacity by which he 

has been enabled to surprise and destroy an enemy. Indeed, i' 

man is naturally more prone to subtility than open valor, J 

owing to his physical weakness in comparison with other ani- | 

mals. They are endowed with natural weapons of defense: ': 

with horns, with tusks, with hoofs, and talons; but man has \ 

to depend on his superior sagacity. In all his encounters | 

with these, his proper enemies, he resorts to stratagem: and j 

when he perversely turns his hostility against his fellow man, i 

he at first continues the same subtle mode of warfare. ; 

The natural principle of war is to do the most harm to our j 

enemy, with the least harm to ourselves: and this of course ; 

is to be effected by stratagem. That chivalrous courage which I 

induces us to despise the suggestions of prudence and to rush j 

in the face of certain danger, is the offspring of society, and j 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 47 



produced by education. It is honorable, because it is in fact 
the triumph of lofty sentiment over an instinctive repugnance 
to pain, and over those yearnings after personal ease and se- 
curity, which society has condemned as ignoble. It is kept 
alive by pride and the fear of shame; and thus the dread of 
real evil is overcome by the superior dread of an evil which 
exists but in the imagination. It has been cherished and 
stimulated also by various means. It has been the theme of 
spirit-stirring song and chivalrous story. The poet and min- 
strel have delighted to shed round it the splendors of fiction; 
and even the historian has forgotten the sober gravity of nar- 
ration, and broken forth into enthusiasm and rhapsody in 
its praise. Triumphs and gorgeous pageants have been its 
reward; monuments, on which art has exhausted its skill, and 
opulence its treasures, have been erected to perpetuate a na- 
tion's gratitude and admiration. Thus artificially excited 
courage has risen to an extraordinary and factitious degree of 
heroism; and, arrayed in all the glorious ''pomp and circum- 
stance of war," this turbulent quality has even been able to 
eclipse many of those quiet, but invaluable virtues, which 
silently ennoble the hmnan character, and swell the tide of 
human happiness. 

But if courage intrinsically consists in the defiance of dan- 
ger and pain, the life of the Indian is a continual exhibition 
of it. He lives in a state of perpetual hostility and risk. Peril 
and adventure are congenial to his nature; or rather seem 
necessary to arouse his faculties and to give an interest to 
his existence. Surrounded by hostile tribes, whose mode of 
warfare is by ambush and surprisal, he is always prepared for 
fight, and lives with his weapons in his hands. As the ship 
careers in fearful singleness through the solitudes of ocean, — 
as the bird mingles among clouds and storms, and wings its 
way, a mere speck, across the pathless fields of air; so the 
Indian holds his course, silent, solitary, but undaunted, 
through the boundless bosom of the wilderness. His expedi- 
tions may vie in distance and danger with the pilgrimage of 
the devoted, or the crusades of the knight-errant. He traverses 
vast forests, exposed to the hazards of lonely sickness, or lurk- 
ing enemies, and pining famine. Stormy lakes, those great 
inland seas, are no obstacles to his wanderings; in his light 
canoe of bark, he sports like a feather on their waves, and 
darts with the swiftness of an arrow down the roaring rapids 
of the rivers. His very subsistence is snatched from the midst 



48 WASHINGTON IRVING 

of toil and peril. He gains Ms food by the hardships and 
dangers of the chase; he wraps himself in the spoils of the 
hear, the panther, and the buSalo; and sleeps among the 
thunders of the cataract. 

No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass the Indian 
in his lofty contempt of death, and the fortitude with which 
he sustains its crudest affliction. Indeed, we here behold him 
rising superior to the white man, in consequence of his pe- 
culiar education. The latter rushes to glorious death at the 
cannon's mouth; the former calmly contemplates its ap- 
proach, and triumphantly endures it, amidst the varied tor- 
ments of surrounding foes, and the protracted agonies of fire. 
He even takes a pride in taunting his persecutors, and provok- 
ing their ingenuity of torture; and as the devouring flames 
prey on his very vitals, and the flesh shrinks from the sinews, 
he raises his song of triumph, breathing the defiance of an 
unconquered heart, and invoking the spirits of his fathers to 
witness that he dies without a groan. 

Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the early histo- 
rians have overshadowed the characters of the unfortunate 
natives, some bright gleams occasionally break through, 
which throw a degree of melancholy luster on their mem- 
ories. Facts are occasionally to be met with in the rude an- 
nals of the eastern provinces, which, though recorded with 
the coloring of prejudice and bigotry, yet speak for them- 
selves, and will be dwelt on with applause and sympathy when 
prejudice shall have passed away. 

In one of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in New 
England, there is a touching account of the desolation carried 
into the tribe of the Pequod Indians. Humanity shrinks 
from the cold-blooded detail of indiscriminate butchery. In 
one place we read of the suprisal of an Indian fort in the 
night when the wigwams were wrapt in flames, and the mis- 
erable inhabitants shot down and slain in attempting to es- 
cape, "all being dispatched and ended in the course of an 
hour." After a series of similar transactions, "our soldiers,'^ 
as the historian piously observes, "being resolved by God's 
assistance to make a final destruction of them," the unhappy 
savages being hunted from their homes and fortresses, and 
pursued with fire and sword, a scanty but gallant band, the sad 
remnant of the Pequod warriors, with their wives and chil- 
dren, took refuge in a swamp. 

Burning with indignation, and rendered sullen by despair; 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 49 

with hearts bursting with grief at the destruction of theii 
tribe, and spirits galled and sore at the fancied ignominy of 
their defeat, they refused to ask their lives at the hands of an 
insulting foe, and preferred death to submission. 

As the night drew on, they were surrounded in their dis- 
mal retreat, so as to render escape impracticable. Thus sit- 
uated, their enemy ^'^plied them with shot all the time, by 
which means many were killed and buried in the mire." In 
the darkness and fog that preceded the dawn of day, some 
few broke through the besiegers and escaped into the woods: 
"the rest were left to the conquerors, of which many were 
killed in the swamp, like sullen dogs who would rather, in 
their self-willedness and madness, sit still and be shot through, 
or cut to pieces," than implore for mercy. When the day 
broke upon this handful of forlorn but dauntless spirits, the 
soldiers, we are told, entering the swamp, "saw several heaps 
of them sitting close together, upon whom they discharged 
their pieces, laden with ten or twelve pistol-bullets at a time; 
putting the muzzles of the pieces under the boughs, within 
a few yards of them; so as, besides those that were found dead, 
many more were killed and sunk into the mire, and never 
were minded more by friend or foe." 

Can anyone read this plain unvarnished tale, without ad- 
miring the stern resolution, the unbending pride, the loftiness 
of spirit, that seemed to nerve the hearts of these self-taught 
heroes, and to raise them above the instinctive feelings of 
human nature? When the Gauls laid waste the city of Rome, 
they found the senators clothed in their robes and seated with 
stern tranquillity in their curule chairs; in this manner they 
suffered death without resistance or even supplication. Such 
conduct was, in them, applauded as noble and magnanimous 
— ^in the hapless Indians, it was reviled as obstinate and sul- 
len. How truly are we the dupes of show and circumstance! 
How different is virtue clothed in purple and enthroned in 
state, from virtue naked and destitute, and perishing obscurely 
in a wilderness! 

But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. The east- 
ern tribes have long since disappeared; the forests that shel- 
tered them have been laid low, and scarce any traces remain 
of them in the thickly-settled States of New England, except- 
ing here and there the Indian name of a village or a stream. 
And such must sooner or later be the fate of those other 
tribes which skirt the frontiers;, and have occasionally been 



50 WASHINGTON IRVING 

inveigled from their forests to mingle in the wars of white 
men. In a little while, and they will go the way that their 
brethren have gone before. The few hordes which still lin- 
ger about the shores of Huron and Superior, and the tribu- 
tary streams of the Mississippi, will share the fate of those 
tribes that once spread over Massachusetts and Connecticut, 
and lorded it along the proud banks of the Hudson; of that 
gigantic race said to have existed on the borders of the Sus- 
quehanna; and of those various nations that flourished about 
the Potomac and the Eappahannock, and that peopled the 
forests of the vast valley of the Shenandoah. They will van- 
ish like a vapor from the face of the earth; their very history 
will be lost in forget fulness; and "the places that now know 
them will know them no more forever." Or if, perchance, 
some dubious memorial of them should survive, it may be in 
the romantic dreams of the poet, to people in imagination his 
glades and groves, like the fauns and satyrs and sylvan deities 
of antiquity. But should he venture upon the dark story of 
their wrongs and wretchedness; should he tell how they were 
invaded, corrupted, despoiled; driven from their native abodes 
and the sepulchers of their fathers; hunted like wild beasts 
about the earth; and sent down with violence and butchery 
to the grave — posterity will either turn with horror and in- 
credulity from the tale, or blush with indignation at the in- 
humanity of their forefathers. "We are driven back," said 
an old warrior, ^^until we can retreat no farther — our hatchets 
are broken, our bows are snapped, our fires are nearly ex- 
tinguished — a little longer and the white man will cease to 
persecute us — for we shall cease to exist." 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 61 



PHILIP OP POKANOKET. 

AN INDIAN MEMOIR. 

As monumental bronze unchanged his look: 
A soul, that pity touch'd, but never shook; 
Train'd, from his tree-rock'd cradle to his bier. 
The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook 
Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear — 
A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. 

— Campbell. 

It is to be regretted that those early writers who treated 
of the discovery and settlement of America, have not given 
us more particular and candid accounts of the remarkable 
characters that flourished in savage life. The scanty anec- 
dotes which have reached us are full of peculiarity and inter- 
est; they furnish us with nearer glimpses of human nature, 
and show what man is in a comparatively primitive state, 
and what he owes to civilization. There is something of the 
charm of discovery in lighting upon these wild and unex- 
plored tracts of human nature; in witnessing, as it were, the 
native growth of moral sentiment; and perceiving those gen- 
erous and romantic qualities which have been artificially cul- 
tivated by society, vegetating in spontaneous hardihood and 
rude magnificence. 

In civilized life, where the happiness, and indeed almost 
the existence, of man depends so much upon the opinion of 
his fellow men, he is constantly acting a studied part. The 
bold and peculiar traits of native character are refined away, 
or softened down by the leveling influence of what is termed 
good breeding; and he practices so many petty deceptions, 
and affects so many generous sentiments, for the purposes of 
popularity, that it is difficult to distinguish his real from his 
artificial character. The Indian, on the contrary, free from 
the restraints and refinements of polished life, and in a great 
degree a solitary and independent being, obeys the impulses 
of his inclination or the dictates of his judgment; and thus 
the attributes of his nature, being freely indulged, grow singly 
great and striking. Society is like a lawn, where every rough- 
ness is smoothed, every bramble eradicated, and where the 



52 WASHINGTON IRVING 



eye is delighted by the smiling verdure of a velvet surface; 
he, however, who would study Nature in its wildness and 
variety, must plunge into the forest, must explore the glen, 
must stem the torrent and dare the precipice. 

These reflections arose on casually looking through a vol- 
ume of early colonial history wherein are recorded, with great 
bitterness, the outrages of the Indians, and their wars with 
the settlers of New England. It is painful to perceive, even 
from these partial narratives, how the footsteps of civilization 
may be traced in the blood of the aborigines; how easily the 
colonists were moved to hostility by the lust of conquest; how 
merciless and exterminating was their warfare. The imagina- 
tion shrinks at the idea, how many intellectual beings were 
hunted from the earth — how many brave and noble hearts, 
of Nature's sterling coinage, were broken down and trampled 
in the dust! 

^ Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, an Indian war- 
rior, whose name was once a terror throughout Massachu- 
setts and Connecticut. He was the most distinguished of a 
number of contemporary Sachems who reigned over the Pe- 
quods, the Narragansetts, the Wampanoags, and the other 
eastern tribes, at the time of the first settlement of New Eng- 
land: a band of native untaught heroes, who made the most 
generous struggle of which human nature is capable; fighting 
to the last gasp in the cause of their country, without a hope 
of victory or a thought of renown. Worthy of an age of 
poetry, and fit subjects for local story and romantic fiction, 
they have left scarcely any authentic traces on the page of 
history, but stalk like gigantic shadows, in the dim twilight 
of tradition.* 

When the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called by 
their descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the New 
World, from the religious persecutions of the Old, their situa- 
tion was to the last degree gloomy and disheartening. Few 
in number, and that number rapidly perishing away through 
sickness and hardships; surrounded by a howling wilderness 
and savage tribes; exposed to the rigors of an almost arctic 
winter, and the vicissitudes of an ever-shifting climate; their 
minds were filled with doleful forebodings, and nothing pre- 
served them from sinking into despondency but the strong 

*While correcting the proof-sheets of this article, the author 
is informed that a celebrated English poet has nearly finished a 
heroic poem on the story of Philip of Pokanoket. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 53 



excitement of religious enthusiasm. In this forlorn situatici!! 
they were visited by Massasoit, chief Sagamore of the Wam- 
panoags, a powerful chief, who reigned over a great extent of 
country, instead of taking advantage of the scanty number 
of the strangers, and expelling them from his territories into 
which they had intruded, he seemed at once to conceive for 
them a generous friendship, and extended towards them the 
rites of primitive hospitality. He came early in the spring to 
their settlement of New Plymouth, attended by a mere hand- 
ful of followers; entered into a solemn league of peace and 
amity; sold them a portion of the soil, and promised to secure 
for them the good-will of his savage allies. Whatever may be 
said of Indian perfidy, it is certain that the integrity and good 
faith of Massasoit have never been impeached. He continued 
a firm and magnanimous friend of the white men; suffering 
them to extend their possessions, and to strengthen themselves 
in the land; and betraying no jealousy of their increasing 
power and prosperity. Shortly before his death, he came once 
more to New Plymouth, with his son, Alexander, for the pur- 
pose of renewing the covenant of peace, and securing it to his 
posterity. 

At this conference, he endeavored to protect the religion 
of his forefathers from the encroaching zeal of the mission- 
aries, and stipulated that no further attempt should be made 
to draw off his people from their ancient faith; but, finding 
the English obstinately opposed to any such condition, he 
mildly relinquished the demand. Almost the last act of his 
life was to bring his two sons, Alexander and Philip (as they 
had been named by the English), to the residence of a princi- 
pal settler, recommending mutual kindness and confidence; 
and entreating that the same love and amity which had existed 
between the white men and himself, might be continued after- 
wards with his children. The good old Sachem died in peace, 
and was happily gathered to his fathers before sorrow came 
upon his tribe; his children remained behind to experience 
the ingratitude of white men. 

His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was of a 
quick and impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious of his 
hereditary rights and dignity. The intrusive policy and dic- 
tatorial conduct of the strangers excited his indignation; and 
he beheld with uneasiness their exterminating wars with the 
neighboring tribes. He was doomed soon to incur their hos- 

16 



54 WASHINGTON IRVING 

tility, being accused of plotting with the Narragansetts to 
rise against the English and drive them from the land. It 
is impossible to say whether this accusation was warranted 
by factSj or was grounded on mere suspicions. It is evident, 
however, by the violent and overbearing measures of the set- 
tlers, that they had by this time begun to feel conscious of 
the rapid increase of their power, and to grow harsh and in- 
considerate in their treatment of the natives. They dispatched 
an armed force to seize upon Alexander, and to bring him 
before their court. He was traced to his woodland haunts, 
and surprised at a hunting house, where he was reposing with 
a band of his followers, unarmed, after the toils of the chase. 
The suddenness of his arrest, and the outrage offered to his 
sovereign dignity, so preyed upon the irascible feelings of the 
proud savage, as to throw him into a raging fever; he was 
permitted to return home on condition of sending his son as 
a pledge for his reappearance; but the blow he had received 
was fatal, and before he reached his home he fell a victim to 
the agonies of a wounded spirit. 

The successor of Alexander was Pometacom, or King Phil- 
ip, as he was called by the settlers, on account of his lofty 
spirit and ambitious temper. These, together with his well- 
known energy and enterprise, had rendered him an object 
of great jealousy and apprehension, and he was accused of 
having always cherished a secret and implacable hostility to- 
wards the whites. Such may very probably, and very natural- 
ly, have been the case. He considered them as originally but 
mere intruders into the country, who had presumed upon 
indulgence, and were extending an influence baneful to sav- 
age life. He saw the whole race of his countrymen melting 
before them from the face of the earth; their territories slip- 
ping from their hands, and their tribes becoming feeble, scat- 
tered, and dependent. It may be said that the soil was orig- 
inally purchased by the settlers; but who does not know the 
nature of Indian purchases, in the early periods of coloniza- 
tion? The Europeans always made thrifty bargains, through 
their superior adroitness in traffic; and they gained vast ac- 
cessions of territory, by easily-provoked hostilities. An un- 
cultivated savage is never a nice inquirer into the refinements 
of law, by which an injury may be gradually and legally 
inflicted. Leading facts are all by which he judges; and it 
was enough for Philip to know, that before the intrusions of 
the Europeans his countrymen were lords of. the soil, and 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 55 

that now they were becoming vagabonds in the land of their 
fathers. 

But whatever may have been his feelings of general hos- 
tility, and his particular indignation at the treatment of his 
brother, he suppressed them for the present; renewed the 
contract with the settlers; and resided peaceably for many 
years at Pokanoket, or as it was called by the English, Mount 
Hope,* the ancient seat of dominion of his tribe. Suspicions, 
however, which were at first but vague and indefinite, began 
to acquire form and substance; and he was at length charged 
with attempting to instigate the various eastern tribes to rise 
at once, and, by a simultaneous effort, to throw off the yoke 
of their oppressors. It is difficult at this distant period to 
assign the proper credit due to these early accusations against 
the Indians. There was a proneness to suspicion, and an 
aptness to acts of violence on the part of the whites, that gave 
weight and importance to every idle tale. Informers abound- 
ed, where tale-bearing met with countenance and reward; and 
the sword was readily unsheathed, when its success was cer- 
tain, and it carved out empire. 

The only positive evidence on record against Philip is the 
accusation of one Sausaman, a renegade Indian, whose natural 
cunning had been quickened by a partial education which he 
had received among the settlers. He changed his faith and 
allegiance two or three times with a facility that evinced the 
looseness of his principles. He had acted for some time as 
Philip's confidential secretary and counselor, and had en- 
joyed his bounty and protection. Finding, however, that the 
clouds of adversity were gathering round his patron, he aban- 
doned his service and went over to the whites; and, in order 
to gain their favor, charged his former benefactor with plot- 
ting against their safety. A rigorous investigation took place, 
Philip and several of his subjects submitted to be examined, 
but nothing was proved against them. The settlers, however, 
had now gone too far to retract; they had previously deter- 
mined that Philip was a dangerous neighbor; they had pre- 
viously evinced their distrust, and had done enough to insure 
his hostility: according, therefore, to the usual mode of rea- 
soning in these cases, his destruction had become necessary to 
their security. Sausaman, the treacherous informer, was 
shortly after found dead in a pond, having fallen a victim to 
the vengeance of his tribe. Three Indians, one of whom was 

* Now Bristol, Rhode Island. 



56 WASHINGTON IRVING 

a friend and counselor of Philip, were apprehended and tried, 
and, on the testimony of one very questionable witness, were 
condemned and executed as murderers. 

This treatment of his subjects and ignominious punish- 
ment of his friend outraged the pride and exasperated the 
passions of Philip. The bolt which had fallen thus at his 
very feet awakened him to the gathering storm, and he de- 
termined to trust himself no longer in the power of the white 
men. The fate of his insulted and broken-hearted brother still 
rankled in his mind; and he had a farther warning in the 
tragical story of Miantonomoh, a great Sachem of the Narra- 
gansetts, who, after manfully facing his accusers before a 
tribunal of the colonists, exculpating himself from a charge of 
conspiracy, and receiving assurances of amity, had been per- 
fidiously dispatched at their instigation. Philip, therefore, 
gathered his fighting men about him; persuaded all strangers 
that he could to join his cause; sent the women and children 
to the Narragansetts for safety; and whenever he appeared, 
was continually surrounded by armed warriors. 

When the two parties were thus in a state of distrust and 
irritation, the least spark was sufficient to set them in a flame. 
The Indians, having weapons in their hands, grew mischiev- 
ous, and committed various petty depredations. In one of 
their maraudings, a warrior was fired upon and killed by a 
settler. This was the signal for open hostilities; the Indians 
pressed to revenge the death of their comrade, and the alarm 
of war resounded through the Plymouth colony. 

In the early chronicles of these dark and melancholy times, 
we meet with many indications of the diseased state of the 
public mind. The gloom of religious abstraction, and the wild- 
ness of their situation, among trackless forests and savage 
tribes, had disposed the colonists to superstitious fancies, and 
had filled their imaginations with the frightful chimeras of 
witchcraft and spectrology. They were much given also to 
a belief in omens. The troubles with Philip and his Indians 
were preceded, we are told, by a variety of those awful warn- 
ings which forerun great and public calamities. The perfect 
arm of an Indian bow appeared in the air at N'ew Plymouth, 
which was looked upon by the inhabitants as a "prodigious ap- 
parition." At Hadley, ISTorthampton, and other towns in their 
neighborhood, "was heard the report of a great piece of ord- 
nance, with the shaking of the earth and a considerable 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 57 

echo."* Others were alarmed on a still sunshiny morning by 
the discharge of guns and muskets; bullets seemed to whistle 
past them, and the noise of drums resounded in the air, seem- 
ing to pass away to the westward; others fancied that they 
heard the galloping of horses over their heads; and certain 
monstrous births which took place about the time filled the 
superstitious in some towns with doleful forebodings. Many 
of these portentous sights and sounds may be ascribed to 
natural phenomena; to the northern lights which occur vivid- 
ly in those latitudes; the meteors which explode in the air; 
the casual rushing of a blast through the top branches of the 
forest; the crash of falling trees or disrupted rocks; and to 
those other uncouth sounds and echoes vv^hich will sometimes 
strike the ear so strangely amidst the profound stillness of 
woodland solitudes. These may have started some melancholy 
imaginations, may have been exaggerated by the love for the 
marvelous, and listened to with that avidity with which we 
devour whatever is fearful and mysterious. The universal 
currency of these superstitious fancies, and the grave record 
made of them by one of the learned men of the day, are strong- 
ly characteristic of the times. 

The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too often 
distinguishes the warfare between civilized men and savages. 
On the part of the whites, it was conducted with superior 
skill and success, but with a wastefulness of the blood, and a 
disregard of the natural rights of their antagonists; on the 
part of the Indians it was waged with the desperation of men 
fearless of death, and who had nothing to expect from peace 
but humiliation, dependence and decay. 

The events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy 
clergyman of the time, who dwells with horror and indigna- 
tion on every hostile act of the Indians, however justifiable, 
whilst he mentions with applause the most sanguinary atroci- 
ties of the whites. Philip is reviled as a murderer and a 
traitor; without considering that he was a true-born prince, 
gallantly fighting at the head of his subjects to avenge the 
tottering power of his line; and to deliver his native land from 
the oppression of usurping strangers. 

The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if such had 
really been formed, was worthy of a capacious mind, and had 
it not been prematurely discovered, might have been over- 
whelming in its consequences. The war that actually broke 

* The Rev. Increase Mather's History. 



58 WASHINGTON IRVING " 

out was but a war of detail; a mere succession of casual ex- 
ploits and unconnected enterprises. Still it sets forth the 
military genius and daring prowess of Philip; and wherever, 
in the prejudiced and passionate narrations that have been 
given of it, we can arrive at simple facts, we find him display- 
ing a vigorous mind; a fertility in expedients; a contempt 
of suffering and hardship; and an unconquerable resolution, 
that command our sympathy and applause. 

Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, he threw 
himself into the depths of those vast and trackless forests 
that skirted the settlements, and were almost impervious to 
anything but a wild beast or an Indian. Here he gathered 
together his forces, like the storm accumulating its stores of 
mischief in the bosom of the thunder-cloud, and would sud- 
denly emerge at a time and place least expected, carrying 
havoc and dismay into the villages. There were now and 
then indications of these impending ravages that filled the 
minds of the colonists with awe and apprehension. The re- 
port of a distant gun would perhaps be heard from the solitary 
woodland, where there was known to be no white man; the 
cattle which had been wandering in the woods, would some- 
times return home wounded; or an Indian or two would be 
seen lurking about the skirts of the forests, and suddenly dis- 
appearing; as the lightning will sometimes be seen playing 
silently about the edge of the cloud that is brewing up the 
tempest. 

Though sometimes pursued, and even surrounded by the 
settlers, yet Philip as often escaped almost miraculously from 
their toils; and plunging into the wilderness, would be lost 
to all search or inquiry until he again emerged at some far 
distant quarter, laying the country desolate. Among his 
strongholds were the great swamps or morasses, which extend 
in some parts of New England; composed of loose bogs and 
deep black mud; perplexed with thickets, brambles, rank 
weeds, the shattered and mouldering trunks of fallen trees, 
overshadowed by lugubrious hemlocks. The uncertain footing 
and the tangled mazes of these shaggy wilds, rendered them 
almost impracticable to the white man, though the Indian 
could thread their labyrinths with the agility of a deer. Into 
one of these, the great swamp of Pocasset l^eck, was Philip 
once driven with a band of his followers. The English did 
not dare to pursue him, fearing to venture into these dark and 
frightful recesses, where they might perish in fens and miry 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 59 

pits or be shot down by lurking foes. They therefore invested 
the entrance to the neck, and began to build a fort, with the 
thought of starving out the foe; but Philip and his warriors 
wafted themselves on a raft over an arm of the sea, in the dead 
of night, leaving the women and children behind, and escaped 
away to the westward, kindling the flames of war among the 
tribes of Massachusetts and the Nipmuck country, and threat- 
ening the colony of Connecticut. 

In this way Philip became a theme of universal apprehen- 
sion. The mystery in which he was enveloped exaggerated 
his real terrors. He was an evil that walked in darkness; 
whose coming none could foresee, and against which none 
knew when to be on the alert. The whole country abounded 
with rumors and alarms. Philip seemed almost possessed 
of ubiquity; for, in whatever part of the widely extended 
frontier an irruption from the forest took place, Philip was 
said to be its leader. Many superstitious notions also were 
circulated concerning him. He was said to deal in necro- 
mancy, and to be attended by an old Indian witch or prophet- 
ess, whom he consulted, and who assisted him by her charms 
and incantations. This indeed was frequently the case with 
Indian chiefs; either through their own credulity, or to act 
upon that of their followers: and the influence of the prophet 
and the dreamer over Indian superstition has been fully evi- 
denced in recent instances of savage warfare. 

At the time that Philip effected his escape from Pocasset, 
his fortunes were in a desperate condition. His forces had 
been thinned by repeated fights, and he had lost almost the 
whole of his resources. In this time of adversity he found a 
faithful friend in Canonchet, Chief Sachem of all the Narra- 
gansetts. He was the son and heir of Miantonomoh, the great 
Sachem, who, as already mentioned, after an honorable acquit- 
tal of the charge of conspiracy, had been privately put to death 
at the perfidious instigations of the settlers. "He was the 
heir," says the old chronicler, "of all his father's pride and 
insolence, as well as of his malice towards the English;" he 
certainly was the heir of his insults and injuries, and the 
legitimate avenger of his murder. Though he had forborne 
to take an active part in this hopeless war, yet he received 
Philip and his broken forces with open arms, and gave them 
the most generous countenance and support. This at once 
drew upon him the hostility of the English; and it was de- 
termined to strike a signal blow, that should involve both 



60 WASHINGTON IRVING 

the Sachems in one common ruin. A great force was^ there- 
fore, gathered together from Massachusetts, Plymouth, and 
Connecticut, and was sent into the Narragansett country in 
the depth of winter, when the swamps, being frozen and leaf- 
less, could be traversed with comparative facility, and would 
no longer afford dark and impenetrable fastnesses to the In- 
dians. 

Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had conveyed the great- 
er part of his stores, together with the -old, the infirm, the 
women and children of his tribe, to a strong fortress, where 
he and Philip had likewise drawn up the flower of their forces. 
This fortress, deemed by the Indians impregnable, was sit- 
uated upon a rising mound or kind of island, of five or six 
acres, in the midst of a swamp; it was constructed with a de- 
gree of judgment and skill vastly superior to what is usually 
displayed in Indian fortification, and indicative of the martial 
genius of these two chieftains. 

Guided by a renegade Indian, the English penetrated, 
through December snows, to this stronghold, and came upon 
the garrison by surprise. The fight was fierce and tumultu- 
ous. The assailants were repulsed in their first attack, and 
several of their bravest officers were shot down in the 
act of storming the fortress sword in hand. The assault 
was renewed with greater success. A lodgment was ef- 
fected. The Indians were driven from one post to another. 
They disputed their ground inch by inch, fighting with the 
fury of despair. Most of their veterans were cut to pieces; 
and after a long and bloody battle, Philip and Canonchet, with 
a handful of surviving warriors, retreated from the fort, and 
took refuge in the thickets of the surrounding forest. 

The victors set fire to the wigwams and the fort; the whole 
was soon in a blaze; many of the old men, the women and the 
children, perished in the flames. This last outrage overcame 
even the stoicism of the savage. The neighboring wood re- 
sounded with the yells of rage and despair, uttered by the 
fugitive warriors as they beheld the destruction of their 
dwellings, and heard the agonizing cries of their wives and 
offspring. "The burning of the wigwams," says a contem- 
porary writer, "the shrieks and cries of the women and chil- 
dren, and the yelling of the warriors, exhibited a most hor- 
rible and affecting scene, so that it greatly moved some of the 
soldiers." The same writer cautiously adds, "They were in 
much doubt then, and afterwards seriously inquired, whether 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 61 

burning their enemies alive could be consistent with human- 
ity, and the benevolent principles of the gospel/^* 

The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is worthy 
of particular mention; the last scene of his life is one of the 
noblest instances on record of Indian magnanimity. 

Broken down in his power and resources by this signal de- 
feat, yet faithful to his ally and to the hapless cause which 
he had espoused, he rejected all overtures of peace, offered 
on condition of betraying Philip and his followers, and de- 
clared that "he would fight it out to the last man, rather than 
become a servant to the English." His home being destroyed, 
his country harassed and laid waste by the incursions of his 
conquerors, he was obliged to wander away to the banks of 
the Connecticut; where he formed a rallying point to the 
whole body of western Indians, and laid waste several of the 
English settlements. 

Early in the spring, he departed on a hazardous expedition, 
with only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to Seaconck, in the 
vicinity of Mount Hope, and to procure seed-corn to plant 
for the sustenance of his troops. This little band of adven- 
turers had passed safely through the Pequod country, and 
were in the center of ISTarragansett, resting at some wigwams 
near Pawtucket river, when an alarm was given of an ap- 
proaching enemy. Having but seven men by him at the time, 
Canonchet dispatched two of them to the top of a neighbor- 
ing hill, to bring intelligence of the foe. 

Panic-stricken by the appearance of a troop of English and 
Indians rapidly advancing, they fled in breathless terror past 
their chieftain, without stopping to inform him of the danger. 
Canonchet sent another scout, who did the same. He then 
sent two more, one of whom, hurrying back in confusion and 
affright, told him that the whole British army was at hand. 
Canonchet saw there was no choice but immediate flight. He 
attempted to escape round the hill, but was perceived and 
hotly pursued by the hostile Indians, and a few of the fleetest 
of the English. Finding the swiftest pursuer close upon his 
heels, he threw off, first his blanket, then his silver-laced coat 
and belt of peag, by which his enemies knew him to be Canon- 
chet, and redoubled the eagerness of pursuit. 

At length, in dashing through the river, his foot slipped 
upon a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This ac- 
cident so struck him with despair, t hat, as he afterwards con- 

* Ms. of the Rev. W. Ruggles. 



62 WASHINGTON IRVING 

fessed, ^^his heart and his bowels turned within him^ and he 
became like a rotten stick, void of strength/^ 

To such a degree was he unnerved, that being seized by a 
Pequod Indian within a short distance of the river, he made 
no resistance, though a man of great vigor of body and bold- 
ness of heart. But on being made prisoner, the whole pride 
of his spirit arose within him; and from that moment, we 
find, in the anecdotes given by his enemies, nothing but re- 
peated flashes of elevated and prince-like heroism. Being 
questioned by one of the English who first came up with him, 
and who had not attained his twenty-second year, the proud- 
hearted warrior, looking with lofty contempt upon his youth- 
ful countenance, replied, "You are a child — you cannot un- 
derstand matters of war — let your brother or your chief come 
— him will I answer." 

Though repeated offers were made to him of his life, on 
condition of submitting with his nation to the English, yet 
he rejected them with disdain, and refused to send any pro- 
posals of the kind to the great body of his subjects; saying, 
that he knew none of them would comply. Being reproached 
with his breach of faith towards the whites; his boast that 
he would not deliver up a Wampanoag, nor the parings of a 
Wampanoag's nail; and his threat that he would burn the 
English alive in their houses; he disdained to justify himself, 
haughtily answering that others were as forward for the war 
as himself, "and he desired to hear no more thereof." 

So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a fidelity to his 
cause and his friend, might have touched the feelings of the 
generous and the brave; but Canonchet was an Indian; a 
being towards whom war had no courtesy, humanity no law, 
religion no compassion — he was condemned to die. The last 
words of his that are recorded, are worthy the greatness of 
his soul. When sentence of death was passed upon him, he 
observed "that he liked it well, for he should die before his 
heart was soft, or he had spoken anything unworthy of him- 
self." His enemies gave him the death of a soldier, for he was 
shot at Stoningham, by three young Sachems of his own 
rank. 

The defeat of the Narragansett forces, and the death of 
Canonchet, were fatal blows to the fortunes of King Philip. 
He made an ineffectual attempt to raise a head of war, by 
stirring up the Mohawks to take arms; but though possessed 
of the native talents of a statesman, his arts were counter- 



PHILIP OF POKAinOKET 63 

acted by the superior arts of his enlightened enemieS;, and 
the terror of their warlike skill began to subdue the resolution 
of the neighboring tribes. The unfortunate chieftain saw 
himself daily stripped of power, and his ranks rapidly thin- 
ning around him. Some were suborned by the whites; others 
fell victims to hunger and fatigue, and to the frequent at- 
tacks by which they were harassed. His stores were all cap- 
tured; his chosen friends were swept away from before his 
eyes; his uncle was shot down by his side; his sister was car- 
ried into captivity; and in one of his narrow escapes he was 
compelled to leave his beloved wife and only son to the mercy 
of the enemy. "His ruin," says the historian, "being thus 
gradually carried on, his misery was not prevented, but aug- 
mented thereby; being himself made acquainted with the 
sense and experimental feeling of the captivity of his chil- 
dren, loss of friends, slaughter of his subjects, bereavement 
of all family relations, and being stripped of all outward com- 
forts, before his own life should be taken away." 

To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, his own followers 
began to plot against his life, that by sacrificing him they 
might purchase dishonorable safety. Through treachery, a 
number of his faithful adherents, the subjects of Wetamoe, 
an Indian princess of Pocasset, a near kinswoman and confed- 
erate of Philip, were betrayed into the hands of the enemy. 
Wetamoe was among them at the time, and attempted to 
make her escape by crossing a neighboring river: either ex- 
hausted by swimming, or starved with cold and hunger, she 
was found dead and naked near the waterside. But 
persecution ceased not at the grave: even death, 
the refuge of the wretched, where the wicked com- 
monly cease from troubling, was no protection to 
this outcast female, whose great crime was affectionate fidelity 
to her kinsman and her friend. Her corpse was the object 
of unmanly and dastardly vengeance; the head was severed 
from the body and set upon a pole, and was thus exposed, at 
Taunton, to the view of her captive subjects. They imme- 
diately recognized the features of their unfortunate queen, 
and were so affected at this babarous spectacle, that we are 
told they broke forth into the "most horrid and diabolical 
lamentations." 

However Philip had borne up against the complicated mis- 
eries and misfortunes that surrounded him, the treachery of 
his followers seemed to wring his heart and reduced him to 



64 WASHINGTON IRVING 

despondency. It is said that "he never rejoiced afterwards, 
nor had any success in any of his designs." The spring of 
liope was broken — the ardor of enterprise was extinguished: 
he looked around, and all was danger and darkness; there was 
no eye to pity him, nor any arm that could bring deliverance. 
With a scanty band of followers, who still remained true to 
his desperate fortunes, the unhappy Philip wandered back to 
the vicinity of Mount Hope, the ancient dwelling of his, 
fathers. Here he lurked about, "like a specter among the 
scenes of former power and prosperity, now bereft of home, 
of family and friend." There needs no better picture of his 
destitute and piteous situation, than that furnished by the 
homely pen of the chronicler, who is unwarily enlisting the 
feelings of the reader in favor of the hapless warrior whom 
he reviles. "Philip," he says, "like a savage wild beast, hav- 
ing been hunted by the English forces through the woods 
above a hundred miles backward and forward, at last was 
driven to his own den upon Mount Hope, where he had re- 
tired, with a few of his best friends, into a swamp, which 
proved but a prison to keep him fast till the messengers of 
death came by divine permission to execute vengeance upon 
him." 

Even at this last refuge of desperation and despair, a sullen 
grandeur gathers round his memory. We picture him to our- 
selves seated among his careworn followers, brooding in silence 
over his blasted fortunes, and acquiring a savage sublimity 
from the wildness and dreariness of his lurking-place. De* 
feated, but not dismayed — crushed to the earth, but not hu- 
miliated — ^he seemed to grow more haughty beneath disaster 
and to experience a fierce satisfaction in draining the last 
dregs of bitterness. Little minds are tamed and subdued by 
misfortune; but great minds rise above it. The very idea of 
submission awakened the fury of Philip, and he smote to 
death one of his followers, who proposed an expedient of 
peace. The brother of the victim made his escape, and in re- 
venge betrayed the retreat of his chieftain. A body of white 
men and Indians were immediately dispatched to the swamp 
where Philip lay crouched, glaring with fury and despair. 
Before he was aware of their approach, they had begun to 
surround him. In a little while he saw five of his trustiest 
followers laid dead at his feet; all resistance was vain; he 
rushed forth from his covert, and made a headlong attempt 



PHILIP OF PQKANOKET 65 

at escape^, but was shot through the heart by a renegade Indian 
of his own nation. 

Such is the scanty story of the brave, but unfortunate King 
Philip; persecuted while living, slandered and dishonored 
when dead. If, however, we consider even the prejudiced 
anecdotes furnished us by his enemies, we may perceive in 
them traces of amiable and lofty character, sufficient to 
awaken sympathy for his fate and respect for his memory. 
We find, that amidst all the harassing cares and ferocious pas- 
sions of constant warfare, he was alive to the softer feelings 
of connubial love and paternal tenderness, and to the gener- 
ous sentiment of friendship. The captivity of his "beloved 
wife and only son'^ is mentioned with exultation, as causing 
him poignant misery: the death of any near friend is tri- 
umphantly recorded as a new blow on his sensibilities; but 
the treachery and desertion of many of his followers, in whose 
affections he had confided, is said to have desolated his heart, 
and to have bereaved him of all farther comfort. He was a 
patriot, attached to his native soil — a prince true to his sub- 
jects, and indignant of their wrongs — a soldier, daring in 
battle, firm in adversity, patient of fatigue, of hunger, of 
every variety of bodily suffering, and ready to perish in the 
cause he had espoused. Proud of heart, and with an untam- 
able love of natural liberty, he preferred to enjoy it among 
the beasts of the forests, or in the dismal and famished re- 
cesses of swamps and morasses, rather than bow his haughty 
spirit to submission, and live dependent and despised in the 
ease and luxury of the settlements. With heroic qualities and 
bold achievements that would have graced a civilized warrior, 
and have rendered him the theme of the poet and the his- 
torian, he lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native land, 
and went down, like a lonely bark, foundering amid darkness 
and tempest — without a pitying eye to weep his fall, or a 
friendly hand to record his struggle. 



66 WASHINGTON IRVING 



STRATFORD-ON-AYOlSr. 

Thou soft flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 
Of things more than mortal sweet Shakspeare would dream; 
The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, 
For hallowed the turf is which pillowed his head. 

— Garrick. 

To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world 
which he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feel- 
ing of something like independence and territorial conse- 
quence, when, after a weary day's travel, he kicks off his boots, 
thrusts his feet into slippers, and stretches himself before 
an inn fire. Let the world without go as it may; let king- 
doms rise or fall, so long as he has the wherewithal to pay his 
bill, he is, for the time being, the very monarch of all he 
surveys. The arm-chair is his throne, the poker his scepter, 
and the little parlor, of some twelve feet square, his undisputed 
empire. It is a morsel of certainty, snatched from the midst 
of the uncertainties of life; it is a sunny moment gleaming 
out kindly on a cloudy day; and he who has advanced some 
way on the pilgrimage of existence, knows the importance of 
husbanding even morsels and moments of enjoyment. "Shall 
I not take mine ease in mine inn?" thought I, as I gave the 
fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow-chair, and cast a complacent 
look about the little parlor of the Eed Horse, at Stratf ord-on- 
Avon. 

The words of sweet Shakspeare were just passing through 
my mind as the clock struck midnight from the tower of the 
church in which he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at 
the door, and a pretty chambermaid, putting in her smiling 
face, inquired, with a hesitating air, whether I had rung. I 
understood it as a modest hint that it was time to retire. 
My dream of absolute dominion was at an end; so abdicating 
my throne, like a prudent potentate, to avoid being deposed, 
and putting the Stratford Guide-Book under my arm, as a 
pillow companion, I went to bed and dreamt all night of 
Shakespeare, the Jubilee, and David Garrick. 

The next morning was one of those quickening mornings 
which we sometimes have in early spring; for it was about 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 67 

the middle of March. The chills of a long winter had sud- 
denly given way; the north wind had spent its last gasp; and 
a mild air came stealing from the west, breathing the breath 
of life into nature, and wooing every bud and flower to burst 
forth into fragrance and beauty. 

I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My first 
visit was to the house where Shakespeare was born, and where, 
according to tradition, he was brought up to his father's craft 
of wool-combing. It is a small, mean-looking edifice of wood 
and plaster, a true nestling-place of gesius, which seems to 
delight in hatching its offspring in by-cG.mers. The walls of 
its squalid chambers are covered with names and inscriptions 
in every language, by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, and con- 
ditions, from the prince to the peasant; and present a striking 
instance of the spontaneous and universal homage of man- 
kind to the great poet of nature. 

The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty 
red face, lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and garnished 
with artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from under an 
exceedingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in ex- 
hibiting the relics with which this, like all other celebrated 
shrines, abounds. There was the shattered stock of the very 
matchlock with which Shakspeare shot the deer, on his 
poaching exploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box; which 
proves that he was a rival smoker of Sir Walter Ealeigh; the 
sword also with which he played Hamlet; and the identical 
lantern with which Friar Laurence discovered Eomeo and 
Juliet at the tomb! There was an ample supply also of 
Shakspeare's mulberry-tree, which seems to have as extraor- 
dinary powers of self-multiplication as the wood of the true 
cross; of which there is enough extant to build a ship of the 
line. 

The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is Shak- 
speare's chair. It stands in the chimney-nook of a small 
gloomy chamber, just behind what was his father's shop. 
Here he may many a time have sat when a boy, watching the 
slowly-revolving spit, with all the longing of an urchin; or, 
of an evening, listening to the crones and gossips of Stratford, 
dealing forth churchyard tales and legendary anecdotes of the 
troublesome times in England. In this chair it is the custonj 
of everyone who visits the house to sit: whether this be done 
with the hope of imbibing any of the inspiration of the bard^ 
I am at a loss to say; I merely mention the fact; and mine 



68 WASHINGTON IRVING 

hostess privately assured me that, though huilt of soUd oak, 
such was the fervent zeal of devotees, that the chair had to 
be new-bottomed at least once in three years. It is worthy of 
notice also, in the history of this extraordinary chair, that it 
partakes something of the volatile nature of the Santa Casa of 
Loretto, or the flying chair of the Arabian enchanter; for 
though sold some few years since to a northern princess, yet, 
strange to tell, it has found its way back again to the old 
chimney-corner. 

I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am very will- 
ing to be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant and costs 
nothing. , I am therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, 
and local anecdotes of goblins and great men; and would 
advise all travelers who travel for their gratification to be 
the same. What is it to us whether these stories are true or 
false so long as we can persuade ourselves into the belief of 
them, and enjoy all the charm of the reality? There is noth- 
ing like resolute good-humored credulity in these matters; 
and on this occasion I went even so far as willingly to believe 
the claims of mine hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, 
when, unluckily for my faith, she put into my hands a play 
of her own composition, which set all belief in her consanguin- 
ity at defiance. 

From the birth-place of Shakspeare a few paces brought 
me to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish 
church, a large and venerable pile, mouldering with age, but 
richly ornamented. It stands on the banks of the Avon, 
on an embowered point, and separated by adjoining gardens 
from the suburbs of the town. Its situation is quiet and re- 
tired: the river runs murmuring at the foot of the church- 
yard, and the elms which grow upon its banks droop their 
branches into its clear bosom. An avenue of limes, the 
boughs of which are curiously interlaced, so as to form in 
summer an arched way of foliage, leads up from the gate 
of the yard to the church porch. The graves are overgrown 
with grass; the gray tombstones, some of them nearly sunk 
into the earth, are half-covered with moss, which has like- 
wise tinted the reverend old building. Small birds have built 
their nests among the cornices and fissures of the walls, and 
keep up a continual flutter and chirping; and rooks are sailing 
and cawing about its lofty gray spire. 

In the course of my rambles I met with the grayheaded 
sexton, and accompanied him home to get the key of the 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 69 

church. He had lived in Stratford^ man and boy, for eighty 
years, and seemed still to consider himself a vigorous man, 
with the trivial exception that he had nearly lost the use of 
his legs for a few years past. His dwelling was a cottage, 
looking out upon the Avon and its bordering meadows, and 
was a picture of that neatness, order and comfort, which per- 
vade the humblest dwelling in this country. A low white- 
washed room, with a stone floor carefully scrubbed, served for 
parlor, kitchen, and hall. Eows of pewter and earthen dishes 
glittered along the dresser. On an old oaken table, well 
rubbed and polished, lay the family bible and prayer-book, 
and the drawer contained the family library, composed of 
about half a score of well-thumbed volumes. An ancient 
clock, that important article of cottage furniture, ticked on 
the opposite side of the room, with a bright warming-pan 
hanging on one side of it, and the old man's horn-handled 
Sunday cane on the other. The fire-place, as usual, was wide 
and deep enough to admit a gossip knot within its jambs. 
In one corner sat the old man's granddaughter sewing, a 
pretty blue-eyed girl, — and in the opposite corner was a super- 
annuated crony, whom he addressed by the name of John 
Ange, and who, I found, had been his companion from child- 
hood. They had played together in infancy; they had worked 
together in manhood; they were now tottering about and gos- 
siping away the evening of life; and in a short time they will 
probably be buried together in the neighboring churchyard. 
It is not often that we see two streams of existence running 
thus evenly and tranquilly side by side; it is only in such 
quiet ^^bosom scenes'' of life that they are to be met with. 

I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the 
bard from these ancient chroniclers; but they had nothing 
new to impart. The long interval, during which Shakspeare's 
writings lay in comparative neglect, has spread its shadow 
over history; and it is his good or evil lot, that scarcely any- 
thing remains to his biographers but a scanty handful of 
conjectures. 

The sexton and his companion had been employed as car- 
penters, on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford ju- 
bilee, and they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of the 
fete, who superintended the arrangements, and who, according 
to the sexton, was "a short punch man, very lively and bus- 
tling." John Ange had assisted also in cutting down Shak- 
speare's mulberry-tree, of which he had a morsel in his pocket 



70 WASHINGTON IRVING 

for sale, no doubt a sovereign quickener of literary concep- 
tion. 

I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very 
dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shakspeare 
house. John Ange shook his head when I mentioned her 
valuable and inexhaustible collection of relics, particularly 
her remains of the mulberry-tree; and the old sexton even ex- 
pressed a doubt as to Shakspeare having been born in her 
house. I soon discovered that he looked upon her mansion 
with an evil eye, as a rival to the poet's tomb; the latter hav- 
ing comparatively but few visitors. Thus it is that historians 
differ at the very outset, and mere pebbles make the stream of 
truth diverge into different channels, even at the fountain- 
head. 

We approached the church through the avenue of limes, 
and entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented with carved 
doors of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and the archi- 
tecture and embellishments superior to those of most country 
churches. There are several ancient monuments of nobility 
and gentry, over some of which hang funeral escutcheons, and 
banners dropping piecemeal from the walls. The tomb of 
Shakspeare is in the chancel. The place is solemn and sepul- 
chral. Tall elms wave before the pointed windows, and the 
Avon, which runs at a short distance from the walls, keeps 
up a low perpetual murmur. A flat stone marks the spot 
where the bard is buried. There are four lines inscribed on 
it, said to have been written by himself, and which have in 
them something extremely awful. If they are indeed his own, 
they show that solicitude about the quiet of the grave which 
seems natural to fine sensibilities and thoughtful minds: 

Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbeare 
To dig the dust inclosed here. 
Blessed be he that spares these stones. 
And curst be he that moves my bones. 

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of 
Shakspeare, put up shortly after his death, and considered 
as a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a 
finely arched forehead; and I thought I could read in it clear 
indications of that cheerful, social disposition, by which he 
was as much characterized among his contemporaries as by 
the vastness of his genius. The inscription mentions his age 
at the time of his decease — ^fifty-three years; an wntimely 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 71 

death for the world: for what fruit might not have been ex- 
pected from the golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered as 
it was from the stormy vicissitudes of life, and flourishing in 
the sunshine of popular and royal favor! 

The inscription on the tombstone has not been without 
its effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains from 
the bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, which 
was at one time contemplated. A few years since also, as 
some laborers were digging to make an adjoining vault, the 
earth caved in, so as to leave a vacant space almost like an 
arch, through which one might have reached into his grave. 
No one, however, presumed to meddle with the remains so 
awfully guarded by a malediction; and lest any of the idle or 
the curious, or any collector of relics^ should be tempted to 
commit depredations, the old sexton kept watch over the 
place for two days, until the vault was finished, and the aper- 
ture closed again. He told me he had made bold to look in 
at the hole, but could see neither coffin nor bones; nothing 
but dust. It was something, I thought, to have seen the dust 
of Shakspeare. 

Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite daugh- 
ter Mrs. Hall, and others of hi family. On a tomb close by, 
also, is a full-length effigy of his old friend John Combe, of 
usurious memory; on whom he is said to have written a lu- 
dicrous epitaph. There are other monuments around, but 
the mind refuses to dwell on anything that is not connected 
with Shakspeare. His idea pervades the place — the whole 
pile seems but as his mausoleum. The feelings, no longer 
checked and thwarted by doubt, here indulge in perfect con- 
fidence; other traces of him may be false or dubious, but here 
is palpable evidence and absolute certainty. As I trod the 
sounding pavement, there was something intense and thrilling 
in the idea, that, in very truth, the remains of Shakspeare were 
mouldering beneath my feet. It was a long time before I 
could prevail upon myself to leave the place; and as I passed 
through the churchyard, I plucked a branch from one of the 
yew-trees, the only relic that I have brought from Stratford. 

I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devo- 
tion, but I had a desire to see the old family seat of the 
Lucys at Charlecot, and to ramble through the park where 
Shakspeare, in company with some of the roisterers of Strat- 
ford, committed his youthful offense of deer-stealing. In 
this hairbrained exploit we are told that he was taken pris- 



72 WASHINGTON IRVING 

oner, and carried to the keeper^s lodge^ where he remained 
all night in doleful captivity. When brought into the pres- 
ence of Sir Thomas Lucy, his treatment must have been gall- 
ing and humiliating; for it so wrought upon his spirit as to 
produce a rough pasquinade, which was affixed to the park 
gate at Charlecot.* 

This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the Knight so 
incensed him, that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to put 
the severity of the law in force against the rhyming deer- 
stalker. Shakspeare did not wait to brave the united puis- 
sance of a Knight of the Shire and a country attorney. He 
forthwith abandoned the pleasant banks of the Avon and his 
paternal trade; wandered away to London; became a hanger- 
on to the theaters; then an actor; and, finally, wrote for the 
stage; and thus, through the persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, 
Stratford lost an indifferent wool-comber, and the world 
gained an immortal poet. He retained, however, for a long 
time, a sense of the harsh treatment of the Lord of Charleeot, 
and revenged himself in his writings; but in the sportive 
way of a good-natured mind. Sir Thomas is said to be the 
original of Justice Shallow, and the satire is slyly fixed upon 
him by the Justice's armorial bearings, which, like those of the 
Knight, had white lucesf in the quarterings. 

Various attempts have been made by his biographers to 
soften and explain away this early transgression of the poet; 
but I look upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits na- 
tural to his situation and turn of mind. Shakspeare, when 
young, had doubtless all the wildness and irregularity of an 
ardent, undisciplined, and undirected genius. The poetic 
temperament has naturally something in it of the vagabond. 
When left to itself, it runs loosely and wildly, and delights in 
everything ec centric and licentious. It is often a turn-up 

* The following is tlie only stanza extant of this lampoon: 

A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse. 
If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it. 
Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. 

He thinks himself great; 

Yet an asse in his state. 
We allow by his ears with but asses to mate. 
If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it. 
Then sing lowsie Lucy, whatever befall it. 

t The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon, about 
Charleeot. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 73 

of a die, in the gambling freaks of fate, whether a natural 
genius shall turn out a great rogue or a great poet; and had not 
Shakspeare's mind fortunately taken a literary bias, he might 
have as daringly transcended all civil, as he has all dramatic 
laws. 

I have little doubt, that in early life, when running, like 
an unbroken colt, about the neighborhood of Stratford, he 
was to be found in the company of all kinds of odd and 
anomalous characters; that he associated with all the mad- 
caps of the place, and was one of those unlucky urchins, at 
mention of whom old men shake their heads, and predict that 
they will one day come to the gallows. To him the poaching 
in Sir Thomas Lucy's park was doubtless like a foray to a 
Scottish Knight, and struck his eager, and as yet untamed, 
imagination, as something delightfully adventurous.* 

The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park 

* A proof of Shakspeare's random habits and associates in his 
youthful days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked 
up at Stratford by the elder Ireland, and mentioned in his "Pic- 
turesque Views on the Avon." 

About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market 
town of Bedford, famous for its ale. Two societies of the vil- 
lage yeomanry used to meet, under the appellation of the Bedford 
topers, and to challenge the lovers of good ale of the neighboring 
villages to a contest of drinking. Among others, the people of 
Stratford were called out to prove the strength of their heads; 
and in the number of the champions was Shakspeare, who, in 
spite of the proverb that "they who drink beer will think beer," 
was as true to his ale as Falstaff to his sack. The chivalry of 
Stratford was staggered at the first onset, and sounded a retreat 
while they had legs to carry them off the field. They had scarcely 
marched a mile, when, their legs failing them, they were forced 
to lie down under a crab-tree, where they passed the night. It is 
still standing, and goes by the name of Shakspeare's tree. 

In the morning his companions awakened the bard, and pro- 
posed returning to Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had 
enough, having drunk with 

Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, 
Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, 
Drudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, 
Beggarly Broom, and drunken Bedford. 

"The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, "still bear the ept* 
thets thus given them; the people of Pebworth are still famed 
for their skill on the pipe and tabor; Hillborough is now called 
Haunted Hillborough; and Grafton is famous for the poverty of 
its soil. 



74 WASHINGTON IRVING 

still remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are pecu« 
liarly interesting from being connected with this whimsical 
but eventful circumstance in the scanty history of the bard. 
As the house stood at little more than three miles' distance 
from Stratford, I resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, that 
I might stroll leisurely through some of those scenes from 
which Shakspeare must have derived his earliest ideas of rural 
imagery. 

The country was yet naked and leafless; but English scen- 
ery is always verdant, and the sudden change in the tempera- 
ture of the weather was surprising in its quickening effects 
upon the landscape. It was inspiring and animating to wit- 
ness this first awakening of spring; to feel its warm breath 
stealing over the senses; to see the moist, mellow earth be- 
ginning to put forth the green sprout and the tender blade; 
and the trees and shrubs, in their reviving tints and bursting 
buds, giving the promise of returning foliage and flower. 
The cold snow-drop, that little borderer on the skirts of win- 
ter, was to be seen with its chaste white blossoms in the small 
gardens before the cottages. The bleating of the new-dropt 
lambs was faintly heard from the fields. The sparrow twit- 
tered about the thatched eaves and budding hedges; the robin 
threw a livelier note into his late querulous wintry strain; 
and the lark, springing up from the reeking bosom of the 
meadow, towered away into the bright fleecy cloud, pouring 
forth torrents of melody. As I watched the little songster, 
mounting up higher and higher, until his body was a mere 
speck on the white bosom of the cloud, while the ear was still 
filled with music, it called to mind Shakspeare's exquisite little 
song in Cymbeline: 

Hark! hark! the lark at heav'n's gate sings. 

And PhcEbus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs. 

On chaliced flowers that lies. 

And winking mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes; 
With every thing that pretty bin. 

My lady sweet, arise! 

Indeed, the whole country about here is poetic ground: 
everything is associated with the idea of Shakspeare. Every 
old cottage that I saw, I fancied into some resort of his boy- 
hood, where he had acquired his intimate knowledge of rustic 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 75 



life and manners, and heard those legendary tales and wild 
superstitions which he has woven like witchcraft into his 
dramas. For in his time, we are told, it was a popular amuse- 
ment in winter evenings *'^to sit round the fire, and tell merry 
tales of errant knights, queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, 
dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, fairies, goblins and 
friars."* 

My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, 
which made a variety of the most fanciful doublings and 
windings through a wide and fertile valley; sometimes glit- 
tering from among willows, which fringed its borders; some- 
times disappearing among groves, or beneath green banks; 
and sometimes rambling out into full view, and making an 
azure sweep round a slope of meadow land. This beautiful 
bosom of country is called the Vale of the Eed Horse. A 
distant line of undulating blue hills seems to be its boundary, 
whilst all the soft intervening landscape lies in a manner en- 
chained in the silver links of the Avon. 

After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned off 
into a foot-path, which led along the borders of fields and 
under hedge-rows to a private gate of the park; there was a 
stile, however, for the benefit of the pedestrian; there being a 
public right of way through the grounds. I delight in these 
hospitable estates, in which everyone has a kind of property — 
at least as far as the foot-path is concerned. It in some 
measure reconciles a poor man to his lot, and what is more, 
to the better lot of his neighbor, thus to have parks and 
pleasure-grounds thrown open for his recreation. He breathes 
the pure air as freely, and lolls as luxuriously under the shade, 
as the lord of the soil; and if he has not the privilege of calling 
all that he sees his own, he has not, at the same time, the 
trouble of paying for it, and keeping it in order. 

I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and elms, 
whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. The wind 
sounded solemnly among their branches, and the rooks cawed 

* Scot, in his "Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumerates a host of 
these fireside fancies. "And they have so fraid us with bull-beg- 
gers, spirits, witches, urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, 
faunes, syrens, kit with the can sticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, 
giantes, imps, calcars, conjurors, nymphes, changelings, incubus, 
Robin good fellow, the sporne, the mare, the man in the oke, the 
hellwaine, the fier drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, 
Tom Tumbler, boneless, and such other bugs, that we were afraid 
of our own ghadowes," 



76 WASHINGTON IRVING 

from their hereditary nests in the tree tops. The eye ranged 
through a long lessening vista, with nothing to interrupt the 
view but a distant statue, and a vagrant deer stalking like a 
shadow across the opening. 

There is something about these stately old a/enues that has 
the effect of Gothic architecture, not merely from the pre- 
tended similarity of form, but from their bearing the evidence 
of long duration, and of having had their origin in a period of 
time with which we associate ideas of romantic grandeur. 
They betoken also the long-settled dignity, and proudly con- 
centrated independence of an ancient family; and I have 
heard a worthy but aristocratic old friend observe, when speak- 
ing of the sumptuous palaces of modern gentry, that "money 
could do much with stone and mortar, but, thank Heaven, 
there was no such thing as suddenly building up an avenue of 
oaks." 

It was from wandering in early life among this rich scenery, 
and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining park of 
Fullbroke, which then formed a part of the Lucy estate, that 
some of Shakspeare's commentators have supposed he derived 
his noble forest meditations of Jacques, and the enchanting 
woodland pictures in "As You Like It." It is in lonely 
wanderings through such scenes, that the mind drinks deep 
but quiet draughts of inspiration, and becomes intensely sen- 
sible of the beauty and majesty of nature. The imagination 
kindles into reverie and rapture; vague but exquisite images 
and ideas keep breaking upon it; and we revel in a mute and 
almost incommunicable luxury of thought. It was in some 
such mood, and perhaps under one of those very trees 
before me, which threw their broad shades over the grassy 
banks and quivering waters of the Avon, that the poet's fancy 
may have sallied forth into that little song which breathes the 
very soul of a rural voluptuary: 

Under the green- wood tree. 

Who loves to lie with me, 

And tune his merry throat 

Unto the sweet bird's note, 

Come hither, come hither, come hither. 

Here shall he see 

No enemy 

But winter and rough weather. 

I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large build- 
ing of brick, with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic style of 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 77 

Queen Elizabeth's day, having been built in the first year of 
her reign. The exterior remains very nearly in its original 
state, and may be considered a fair specimen of the residence 
of a wealthy country gentleman of those days. A great gate- 
way opens from the park into a kind of courtyard in front 
of the house, ornamented with a grass-plot, shrubs, and 
flower-beds. The gateway is in imitation of the ancient bar- 
bican; being a kind of outpost, and flanked by towers; though 
evidently for mere ornament, instead of defense. The front 
of the house is completely in the old style; with stone shafted 
casements, a great bow-window of heavy stone work, and a 
portal with armorial bearings over it, carved in stone. At 
each corner of the building is an octagon tower, surmounted 
by a gilt ball and weathercock. 

The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend 
just at the foot of a gently sloping bank, which sweeps down 
from the rear of the house. Large herds of deer were feeding 
or reposing upon its borders; and swans were sailing majestic- 
ally upon its bosom. As I contemplated the venerable old 
mansion, I called to mind Falstafi"s encomium on Justice 
Shallow's abode, and the affected indifference and real vanity 
of the latter: 

"Falstaff. You have here a goodly dwelling and a rich. 
"Shallow. Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, Sir 
John: — marry, good air," 

Whatever may have been the joviality of the old mansion 
in the days of Shakspeare, it had now an air of stillness and 
solitude. The great iron gateway that opened into the court- 
yard was locked; there was no show of servants bustling about 
the place; the deer gazed quietly at me as I passed, being 
no longer harried by the moss-troopers of Stratford. The 
only sign of domestic life that I met with was a white cat, 
stealing with wary look and stealthy pace towards the stables, 
as if on some nefarious expedition. I must not omit to men- 
tion the carcass of a scoundrel crow which I saw suspended 
against the barn wall, as it shows that the Lucys still inherit 
that lordly abhorrence of poachers, and maintain that rigor- 
ous exercise of territorial power which was so strenuously 
manifested in the case of the bard. 

After prowling about for some time, I at length found my 
way to a lateral portal, which was the every-day entrance to 
the mansion. I was courteously received by a worthy old 



78 WASHINGTON IRVING 

housekeeper, who, with the civility and communicativeness 
of her order, showed me the interior of the house. The great- 
er part has undergone alterations, and been adapted to mod- 
ern tastes and modes of living: there is a fine old oaken stair- 
case; and the great hall, that noble feature in an ancient 
manor-house, still retains much of the appearance it must 
have had in the days of Shakspeare. The ceiling is arched 
and lofty; and at one end is a gallery, in which stands an 
organ. The weapons and trophies of the chase, which for- 
merly adorned the hall of a country gentleman, have made 
way for family portraits. There is a wide hospitable fire-place, 
calculated for an ample old-fashioned wood fire, formerly the 
rallying place of winter festivity. On the opposite side of the 
hall is the huge Gothic bow-window, with stone shafts, which 
looks out upon the court-yard. Here are emblazoned in 
stained glass the armorial bearings of the Lucy family for 
many generations, some being dated in 1558. I was delighted 
to observe in the quarterings the three white luces by which 
the character of Sir Thomas was first identified with that of 
Justice Shallow. They are mentioned in the first scene of 
the Merry Wives of W^indsor, where the Justice is in a rage 
with Falstafi' for having "beaten his men, killed his deer, 
and broken into his lodge." The poet had no doubt the of- 
fenses of himself and his comrades in mind at the time, and 
we may suppose the family pride and vindictive threats of the 
puissant Shallow to be a caricature of the pompous indigna- 
tion of Sir Thomas. 

"Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not: I will make a Star 
Chamber matter of it; if he were twenty Sir John Falstaffs, he 
shall not abuse Robert Shallow, Esq. 

"Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice, peace, and coram. 

"Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum. 

"Slender. Ay, and ratalorum too, and a gentleman born, mas- 
ter parson; who writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, 
quittance, or obligation. Armigero. 

"Shallow. Ay, that I do; and have done any time these three 
hundred years. 

"Slender. All his successors gone before him have done 't, and 
all his ancestors that come after him may; they may give the 
dozen white luces in their coat. 

"Shallow. The council shall hear it; it is a riot. 

"Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot; there is no 
fear of Got in a riot; the council, hear you, shall desire to hear 
the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot; take your vizaments in 
that. 

"Shallow. Ha! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword 
should end it I " 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 79 



Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by Sir 
Peter Lely of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty of the 
time of Charles the Second: the old housekeeper shook her 
head as she pointed to the picture, and informed me that 
this lady had been sadly addicted to cards, and had gambled 
away a great portion of the family estate, among which was 
that part of the park where Shakspeare and his comrades had 
killed the deer. The lands thus lost have not been entirely 
regained by the family, even at the present day. It is but 
justice to this recreant dame to confess that she had a sur- 
passingly fine hand and arm. 

The picture which most attracted my attention was a great 
painting over the fire-place, containing likenesses of Sir 
Thomas Lucy and his family, who inhabited the hall in the 
latter part of Shalvispeare's lifetime. I at first thought it was 
the vindictive knight himself, but the housekeeper assured 
me that it was his son; the only likeness extant of the former 
being an effigy upon his tomb in the church of the neighbor- 
ing hamlet of Charlecot. The picture gives a lively idea of 
the costume and manners of the time. Sir Thomas is dressed 
in rufi; and doublet; white shoes with roses in them; and has 
a peaked yellow, or, as Master Slender would say, ^^a cane- 
colored beard." His lady is seated on the opposite side of 
the picture in wide rufi: and long stomacher, and the children 
have a most venerable stifi^ness and formality of dress. Hounds 
and spaniels are mingled in the family group; a hawk is 
seated on his perch in the foreground, and one of the children 
holds a bow; — all intimating the knight's skill in hunting, 
hawking, and archery — so indispensable to an accomplished 
gentleman in those days.* 

I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall 
had disappeared; for I had hoped to meet with the stately 

* Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, 
observes, "His housekeeping is seen much in the different fami- 
lies of dogs, and serving-men attendant on their kennels; and 
the deepness of their throats is the depth of his discourse. A 
hawk he esteems the true burden of nobility, and is exceedingly 
ambitious to seem delighted with the sport, and have his fist 
gloved with jesses." And Gilpin, in his description of a Mr. 
Hastings, remarks, "He kept all sorts of hounds that run buck, 
fox, hare, otter, and badger; and had hawks of all kinds, both 
long and short winged. His great hall was commonly strewed 
with marrow-bones, and full of hawk-perches, hounds, spaniels, 
and terriers. On a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay some of 
the choicest terriers, hounds and spaniels." 



80 WASHINGTON IRVING 



elbow-chair or carved oak, in which the country 'Squire of 
former days was wont to sway the scepter of empire over his 
rural domains; and in which might be presumed the re- 
doubted Sir Thomas sat enthroned in awful state, when the 
recreant Shakspeare was brought before him. As I like to 
deck out pictures for my entertainment, I pleased myself with 
the idea that this very hall had been the scene of the unlucky 
bard's examination on the morning after his captivity in the 
lodge. I fancied to myself the rural potentate, surrounded 
by his body-guard of butler, pages, and the blue-coated serv- 
ing-men with their badges; while the luckless culprit was 
brought in, forlorn and chapfallen, in the custody of game- 
keepers, huntsmen, and whippers-in, and followed by a rabble 
rout of country clowns. I fancied bright faces of curious 
housemaids peeping from the half-opened doors; while from 
the gallery the fair daughters of the Knight leaned gracefully 
forward, eying the youthful prisoner with that pity "that 
dwells in womanhood." Who would have thought that this 
poor varlet, thus trembling before the brief authority of a 
country 'Squire, and the sport of rustic boors, was soon to be- 
come the delight of princes; the theme of all tongues and 
ages; the dictator to the human mind; and was to confer 
immortality on his oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon! 
I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, 
and I felt inclined to visit the orchard and arbor where the 
Justice treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence "to a 
last year's pippen of his own graifing, with a dish of carra- 
ways;" but I had already spent so much of the day in my 
rambling, that I was obliged to give up any further investiga- 
tions. When about to take my leave I was gratified by the 
civil entreaties of the housekeeper and butler, that I would 
take some refreshment — an instance of good old hospitality, 
which I grieve to say we castle-hunters seldom meet with in 
modern days. I make no doubt it is a virtue which the present 
representative of the Lucys inherits from his ancestors; for 
Shakspeare, even in his caricature, makes Justice Shallow im- 
portunate in this respect, as witness his pressing instances to 
Falstaff: 

"By cock and pye, Sir, you shall not away to-night * * *. I 
will not excuse you; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not 
be admitted; there is no excuse shall serve; you shall not be 
excused * * * . Some pigeons, Davy; a couple of short-legged 
hens; a joint of mutton; and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, 
tell 'William Cook.' " 



BTRATFORD-QN-AVON §1 

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind 
had become so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes 
and characters connected with it, that I seemed to be actually 
living among them. Everything brought them a« it were 
before my eyes; and as the door of the dining-room opened, 
I almost expected to hear the feeble voice of Master Silence 
quavering forth his favorite ditty: 

" 'Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all. 
And welcome merry Shrove-tide!" 

On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the 
singular gift of my poet; to be able thus to spread the magic of 
his mind over the very face of nature; to give to things and 
places a charm and character not their own, and to turn this 
*^working-day world" into a perfect fairy land. He is indeed 
the true enchanter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, 
but upon the imagination and the heart. Under the wizard 
influence of Shakspeare I had been walking all day in com- 
plete delusion. I had surveyed the landscape through the 
prism of poetry, which tinged every object with the hues of 
the rainbow. I had been surrounded with fancied beings; 
with mere airy nothings, conjured up by poetic power; yet 
which, to me, had all the charm of reality. I had heard 
Jacques soliloquize beneath his oak; and beheld the fair Rosa- 
lind and her companion adventuring through the woodlands; 
and, above all, had been once more present in spirit with fat 
Jack Falstaff, and his contemporaries, from the august Justice 
Shallow down to the gentle Master Slender, and the sweet 
Anne Page. Ten thousand honors and blessings on the bard 
who has thus gilded the dull realities of life with innocent 
illusions; who has spread exquisite and unbought pleasures 
in my checkered path, and beguiled my spirit in many a lonely 
hour, with all the cordial and cheerful sympathies of social 
life! 

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I 
paused to contemplate the distant church in which the poet 
lies buried, and could not but exult in the malediction which 
has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed 
vaults. What honor could his name have derived from being 
mingled in dusty companionship with the epitaphs and es- 
cutcheons and venal eulogiums of a titled multitude? What 
would a crowded corner in Westminster Abbey have been, 



82 WASHINGTON IRVING 

compared with this reverend pile, which seems to stand in 
beautiful loneliness as his sole mausoleum! The solicitude 
about the grave may be but the offspring of an overwrought 
sensibility; but human nature is made up of foibles and pre- 
judices; and its best and tenderest affections are mingled with 
these factitious feelings. He who has sought renown about 
the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly favor, 
will find, after all, that there is no love, no admiration, no 
applause, so sweet to the soul as that which springs up in 
his native place. It is there that he seeks to be gathered in 
peace and honor, among his kindred and his early friends. 
And when the weary heart and failing head begin to warn 
him that the evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly 
as does the infant .0 the mother's arms, to sink to sleep in 
the bosom of the scene of his childhood. 

How would it have cheei d the spirit of the youthful bard, 
when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, 
he cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, could he 
have foreseen that, before many years, he should return to it 
covered with renown; that his name should become the boast 
and glory of his native place; that his ashes should be relig- 
iously guarded as its most precious treasure; and that its les- 
sening spire, on which his eyes were fixed in tearful contem- 
plation, should one day become the beacon, towering amidst 
the gentle landscape, to guide the literary pilgrim of every na- 
tion to his tombl 



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